[The following is a potential novel opening. Would you keep reading?]
I am nothing. I was once something, perhaps a very long time ago. I can still remember the days when I could feel, when I could write with emotion. Back then, things seemed…brighter. Now I am nothing. There is a hole inside me. I can’t fill it, I can’t even see the bottom—I doubt there really is one—so how could I possibly fill it? It’s just there. Its lack of substance is the only true substance I have. I do not exist. I never will. My thoughts will be the only thing death will rob from me.