As I write this novella I can feel myself whirring down into fictional existential darkness like a falling ceiling fan onto a glass table in a living room full of family members. I slowly, with darkened perceptive pretension, feel myself drift from my family to a colder spot, in a small apartment where I take everything (especially myself) too seriously. And I feel like investing my emotions into a fictional character makes my problems disappear but it doesn't; instead I just stop experiencing everything and weeks pass by in impatient blurs pointed nowhere, and girls disappear and reappear vapidly, urgently, quietly, quickly. And when I scribble a barely legible 'The End' near the end of my faded, wrinkled, booze stained notebook, what next?