This afternoon (at 2:49 pm, if you want to be precise), I had this to say in my offline journal:
I just cannot finish today. I will be here for the rest of my life. I will never leave this desk. There has always been this manuscript hungry for words I cannot produce, there will always be this manuscript hungry for words I cannot produce. There was never anything else, there never will be anything else. A hungry manuscript is the totality of my existence.
I dream, sometimes, that I've left this desk, that I've walked away from the manuscript. I dream sometimes that I'm talking to people, ones with a pulse and thoughts of their own, people I have not written. Sometimes, I dream that I sleep. But I know it's not true. I know I have never left this desk, never left this manuscript.
Ah, the warped and twisted interior monologue of the writer. I did finish, though. For today at least. It starts all over again tomorrow.