There are no more stories left. That's what I'm thinking as I walk down the empty streets. Current time: 4:57 AM. Will to keep fighting: 21%.

Here's the thing: all the times this has happened before, I've always had something to hold onto. A good meal, my best friend's laughter, the possibility of falling in love again. Endless summer days and swims in the lake near my house and the bite of cold night air in my lungs.

But those things just aren't enough for me anymore, and I don't know why, but it's probably the most tragic thing in the world. Sometimes I feel like I'm the most tragic thing in the world.

There are no more stories left, and that's all there is. Stories saved me, you know, once upon a time. They made me look into my future, think of all the exciting people I'd meet, of all the new experiences I'd have. But man, now that I've actually gotten there, the future is actually just as bleak as the past. Go figure.

And now there are no more stories left. Well, no more stories that will save me. Well, no more of my story.

It's a long walk, but I'll get there eventually.

I've got the rest of my life, after all.