It's cloudy, and windy - far too cloudy and windy for this part of the world, at this time of year. It's supposed to be warm, but instead, I shiver. I rock my chair and deny myself the luxury of a cup of coffee. My mouth tastes bitter and my palms dry up. I cut my fingers as I run them through my rough hair. I try to walk, but I can't. I can barely stand the view outside my window. More under-construction buildings, reaching high, blocking the view to the city beyond. A woman walks past, or maybe it was a man. I don't care. I try not to succumb to my failures, and think of my successes. Or I could just surrender. Outside, I try to push through the crowds. Words I think of slap my face. Too little, but maybe, not too late. I try to find a face that will give me a sign. Just one more curve. I keep going. On the crest of the hill, I see broken bottles and dead daffodils lying on the ground. I lie beside them. I can lie as long as I want here. The daffodils won't complain, they're dead. Weeds are free to slip up through the cracking earth. I brush them with my unbending fingers. It gets dark, and I'm still there. The city below disappears beneath dark clouds. The voices of children are drawn out. I am alone. I have been here before. My veins bulge. Now, all I hear is the wind whistling, strengthening, often carrying dead daffodils on its rushed travels. It's pitch black now. My mind is blank, and I start to hear a voice. It's coming to take me. It treads on my chest. The air I gasp tastes rusty, and my fingers dig into the earth beneath me. Pressure crushes my ribs and I choke, but I hold the pain in. I let it hurt me.

It's the end of the world. It's the day I remember my purpose in life. It's the day I remember my unfinished novel.