But everything has been written. What do you want me to write?
Supernatural? True story? Mystery? Romance?
It’s all been written before. The greatest and drunkest of writers have said it all in all the possible forms. What do you want me to write?
My thoughts? My feelings? My experience?
Nothing new, I speak of nothing new. I have only inherited the human dilemma – which welds me in whatever way it wills.
Impossible. They lied when they told you the only difference between man and machine is free will. For every creation, a creator sits proudly boasting of their masterpiece – an expression of their absolute creativity and control. Control. They lied.
No need. I leave nothing of value. I only leave the burden of existence and inevitable unoriginality.
Redundant. This life suffices to voice regret for it is the epitome of pity in all its pathetic grandeur.
Farce. What could this archaic existence have done that has not been done before? This sac of lifeless despair and desires has nothing to confess because it has not done anything worthy of sufficient significance to be claimed as a confession.
What do you want me to write?
You. You write.