Nicholas Barrios finished typing and sighed. Even writing stories he already knew was hard—to create them from thin air, on a schedule, was some sort of stupid. Thirty days ago he had started writing with the idea that it would be no more than a small part of the day. Something to keep his mind occupied and perhaps a small grab at the hidden ambition he had of being a writer.He had been wrong. He had spent the last thirty days constantly going over plots and motivations. Driving became a time to pump up the volume and live out stories, trying to make them go further with each repetition, hoping that at the end of the day he had come up with enough. He had learned to keep them running in the back of his mind.And now that the thirty days were up and all he had left was to write a goodbye, he felt relieved. There were more stories to write, of course, but they could wait for a while.He has a feeling, however, that as soon as that anxiety and excitement and motivation is gone, he will miss it. It wasn’t that hard, he thinks, I can do it again—thus proving he’s a goddamn fool.If you were here from the beginning, thanks for reading. I’m honored.If you weren’t, the words will be there for when you have the inclination.See you soon.