Is it when we can't remember why we tell them in the first place? When we remember the punchline, but not the joke? We don't remember when we sprung the leak, but now when we look inside, all we find are anecdotes to stories we don't understand anymore, and everything else is just empty. All the meaning leaked out, all the gold, and now we're left with bullet-pointed lives, with nothing besides these vague ideas of the kind of people we used to be and no idea of how to get to the people we want to be. When did we become our stories? When we forgot their meanings? When we skipped all the boring stuff and went straight for the excitementnowlet'sgodosomethingcrazy that we always read about in books? How did we do this to ourselves? Did we stop paying attention? Did we daydream ourselves away?