I write because I have to. Plain and simple. That little voice in the back of my head, the one that the people on TV say I should take a pill to alleviate but that I know for a fact is my muse, Murray, banging away from his subconscious basement apartment with his broom as yells for me to sit down and write fer Crissakes…that little voice won’t let me do anything else.

But I write because I’m trying to shape the world in my own little way, in a way that I can’t as forces beyond my reach spin out of control in an attempt to smash our little world into glowing pieces of slag. I’m trying to bring about the future here, dammit, and I’m making sure that the one I conjure up is free of religious madmen who have access to nuclear weaponry or cable TV (either one is dangerous, though I’m not sure which will do more damage in the end). See, today was a beautiful day, the kind that makes all of the urine-stenched stairwells and wax-faced gym rats seem like a small price to pay to live in this massive city that rolls like a Persian carpet from the mountains to the sea. This city was beautiful this weekend, with its streets washed clean and its air scrubbed sweet. Los Angeles, Santa Monica, all the little bits that I was were perfect, and I have to do everything in my tiny power to make sure that it isn’t damaged and smashed into oblivion.

This is why I write. Because I can’t do anything else.