Stories echo in the emptiness of my mind. Their overlapping voices entangle and knot, causing me to lose one inside the other, like a series of babushka dolls. Slowly I try to separate each story, but I fail and they fall back inside the cacophony of words. I try to calm them down, coax them into a state of stupor, but suddenly I wake up with keyboard indents, and a river of drool flooding the canyon between the z and x key. I shut down my computer and head to bed. Well played stories, well played, but there’s always tomorrow.