With the will of an overly tired turtle, Zander pushed himself to write the next passage of his story. He did not get far. His mind was on, but not on task. He wanted sleep, yet whenever he lay down, his thoughts raced. There was nothing else he wanted to do because there was nothing that he want to do. Not even write, really. He just pushed himself to do so. Was it his depression, his anxiety, his hypo-mania, or all of them combined. He did not know. He just knew he wanted to want to do something. Wanted desire, wanted a craving. In the end, he wrote no story, he only wrote. Words that splattered out, that held little meaning. No entertainment value, but maybe provided a little catharsis.