I told my idea for the film to my friend Bill when he was in town. He was the person to tell it to, since he was going to start his second year at a film school in California in the fall. I had written two screenplays that he liked, and I thought if I really wanted to make this film, he would be the person to bounce the idea off. "First we show a guy on the Greyhound, making his way into the city. When he gets there, he goes to an apartment in an old house such as this, and an old woman shows him around, tells him what the rent is, etc. He moves in with his little case of belongings. The whole rest of the film is scenes of him chain-smoking, throwing things up and catching them, flipping quarters and trying to guess if it will be heads or tales, swatting his fists at the flies, crushing cockroaches, swallowing pills and beer. Meanwhile, as the film progresses, the apartment gets filthier and filthier, turns into a real shithole. He'll type out pages of manuscript, sit on the floor and arrange the pages about him, type page after page and throw them over his shoulder when he's done, finally burn his whole manuscript in the kitchen sink. He will drink more as the film progresses, swallow more pills, grow more paranoid, hear voices. There is no dialogue in the whole film, except in the very beginning. We never learn where this man came from, what city this is, why he is here, where he gets money. In the last scene he buys a set of razorblades, takes them home, unwraps them, looks up to heaven, and smiles. It will be as telling a little smile as on the Mona Lisa--just as subtle and powerful. That's it. Roll credits. What do you think?" He didn't like the idea. "Wait a minute," he said--"a film about a guy in his apartment, never going out, living in filth because he won't clean? But . . . that's all you do. You want to make a film about yourself?" It was obvious where the idea had come from, so I just changed the subject.