Now that I have the keys in front of me I don’t know what to say. Does it sound cliché to say that there words just aren’t coming to me? Ideas used to spill forth like an unwanted stream of vomit, but now I’m a walking, talking, capable member of society. What happens now? What do I do now?

The door opens and a man walks through. A man of no shape, no tone, no real detail. A lesser person may have asked what his purpose was. But only silence greeted him, cracked like glass by the sound of his footsteps and his coughing blurring together, shaping a noise of an existence imitating life. This man, this fake-man, he goes to the desk, he opens the drawer and he begins searching. For what is irrelevant. It is the search that is important.

I offer to help him, though I do not know why, but he ignores me. Still searching for nothing.

“Nothing is at the edges of everything else,” I try to tell him. He does not hear me. Or perhaps he simply does not acknowledge me.

“It’s no use talking to him,” the parrot on the bookshelf warns, “He’ll be like that all day, until he finds it.”

“But it cannot be found.” I argue. The parrot only looks at me.

And now that the words are coming, the keys are twisting like snakes and the door takes form. It’s just a frame, sitting in an empty space. It is a possibility of a place that does not exist yet. I do not know what is supposed to lie on the other side. All I know is the words that don’t make any sense, and that nothing cannot be found in a drawer.

I’m sitting at the end of the world, and the parrot is with me. I try to ask it what lies beyond the end of things, but my voice isn’t working. It ruffles its feathers and does not speak. I don’t think it knows how anymore. I don’t think it is the parrot from the room.

“Beyond the end lies another beginning.” I decide.

“Are you sure?” The parrot replies, and I’m surprised to hear it speak. Before I can answer, however, I fall of the edges and spiralling out into nothingness. There is a crack of light on the horizon, and I try to swim towards it. A massive hand reaches down into the heart of the nothingness which has engulfed me, but as one the nothingness and I shrink away. Paper, dry and hard, rises up from beneath me and the nothingness has left me, alone in the drawer.

“It’s not here anymore.” I shout to the man searching for nothing. But he does not hear me.

I have the keys and I have the door. But there is no handle. There is no keyhole. There is nothing for me in the door, and so I know that I must leave. The words have slowed to a trickle, and there is nothing left. The door is incomplete. But there is nothing left to add to it. I am finished.