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I had my black coffee cup in hand, soggy toasts in front of me, the quite hum of the coffee machine filling the empty pauses of the soft conversations filling the air, with the occasional clacking of cutlery, and a subtle smell of cigars. Sunday morning, the diner had big windows that overlooked the city below. Suits with no time, streams of red and white lights, the epitome of an inspirational place, but here I am. 88 stories in the air, the city skyline in front of me, the sun beams slowly crawling over its edge, and yet, nothing. I was in pursuit of a muse, or that’s what I convinced myself to believe. Cliché, that’s what all this is. My fingers have been hovering over the keyboard for over an hour, nothing. Everything that I wrote came out as a f***ed up poem. Something I kept erasing. I had enough of that crap. I knew from the moment I reluctantly decided to leave the warmth of my bed, to go eat some supposedly quality toasts in some billion dollar skyscraper, that the story wasn't going to end well. This wasn't me. I was looking for tragedy. A change, an escape.  So I shut my laptop and walked out. Coffee unfinished, toasts still soggy, clothes reeking of cigar smoke. My feet took me to the elevator; my fingers looked for the last story. The button lit. I wandered around until I found the staircase door, crisp morning air attacking my nostrils, burning my lungs, eyes closed, and eloquent strides towards the brink. It was all a blur, but it was calming. Then enveloped by a complete sense of calm, I found what I was looking for. I was in search of an ending, for my story.

Foggy Loop Skyline in B&W. 2010. Photograph. Chicago. By Doug Siefken. Web. <http://www.flickr.com/photos/siefken/5184707221/in/faves-29602190@N00/>.