About this time of year, living in the real and mythical shadow of Hollywood, I get the the sighing fantods, a kind of malaise that's akin to post-holiday binges of one sort or another. Cinema news, film projects, this blog, the internet community, all seem to lose their luster for days on end. As adults (well, mostly adults) we muscle on through the motions until that one-night stand mistress, Inspiration, comes around again. Nothing last forever, 99% sweat, no true pleasure without suffering, etc. etc. but answer me this: When her eyes have left me and my room long before she slams the door and I know it will be some time before she comes back and that I will pace the room and drink, read good stuff and watch bad stuff, why does missing her so dissolve my very last mustard seed of faith?