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A little while ago, I wrote a prologue for a story idea I had. I never even started the rest of the story, but I kinda like it on its own, even if most of the ideas for the story aren't there yet. Part of the reason I stopped writing for it was because I created two really interesting characters for the prologue... and then killed off both of them. And then the 'real' protagonist didn't seem as fun. Clearly I need to learn from Brandon, and make my Cenn character not as interesting as my Kaladin. Anyway here's the prologue (with profanity censored as to follow the rules of this site). Let me know what y'all think.

Scheduled The I now listen, to the song not heard— not played. The song from Her. Reading this next one ("Like Atlas") again, it kinda sucks. I definitely coulda done better... Like Atlas I feel sometimes an Immense burden— That of humanity. It weighs on me, And I feel guilty, And helpless. Doomsday "If the world ended tomorrow, and it could." "If I died, I'd be fine." But what did She have to say, about Doomsday? Nietzsche A name repeated at a glowing screen at two AM. Nietzsche. Nietzsche. Nietzsche. Gott ist Tot. [Illegible]. Not-moving— [I think that's what I wrote?] No-sleep, grinning is-strained. Not-sure-how-to-act, Sitting in that Grey plastic room in The corner of The room—my room. Staying Up Staying up only to Wake up early and Staying up late with Droopy eyes and A numbing brain that [?] Craves sleep. - Me

Scheduled Paralysis I am not me— I cannot breathe, Nor can I think, For every thought thought Is two more worries wrought. Faded Bliss I can't remember her, Not how I'd like. Our brief friendship, The possibility for more. I try to remember, I don't want to forget— Despite the pain of regret. See Her I wish I could see her, gain. I wish I could be with her, once more. Am I better off forgetting? Déjà Vu I've been here, before. Lost a friend, never seen again. Can I regain it? Don't Know I don't know, If I loved her— Or if I still do. Is it ruined? Or is this just my mood? Sickness My head hurts, Sitting on this unmade bed with a pile of books at my feet— too much to read. Love Poems Sitting on this unmade bed with a book of poems to keep me occupied, but they only remind me of her. Of what could've been, what could be, what I don't have. I am sitting on this unmade bed, an aching head and book of heartbreak to keep me company in this foreign-familar land. Poet Girl I wish I were a poet girl, like her— a heartbroken poet girl, whose words drown me. Never Happened I didn't even get a heartbreak. Didn't get to get to love her. - No heart to break?

Delivered without much comment. Revisions are for Draft 2