I watched seven movies this month. It's not an impressive number. It took me a month and twenty days to finally come back to my body and realize that a new year had started and I had to do something with my life. I look around as I was hungry and realize that this year will not be any kinder to me than the past ones. That's okay, I tell myself, I can take it.

Horror to me is just paranoia. What if you were there? What if someone you loved was there? What if you could put a name to the entity that had been fighting against you? What if it wasn't all in your head? What if it was? What happens when you can touch, smell and see it? It could tell you it's name.

Between the threat of homelessness and the hunger and the sheer spite that will make us survive, I had to do something for myself. I didn't want to be productive. I didn't want to think about the fact I have to fix all of this shit. I want to let myself breath, at least for an hour and a half, when I can.

I think that's what's the most wonderful thing about fiction. It reflects reality, you read it in your own environment, but in the end, it's not about you. It's this other world with other people with their own problems and for however long, you don't have to be your own character.

Any fucking ways, I decided I want to watch 100 horror movies this year. Will I? Probably not. I won't even actively try to, I don't care if in the end I manage seven or seventy. I just want something to look forward; I want to start the next year different than this, and if the only difference is a little more art in my life than the year before, then so be it.