31 March 2009

The Complexities of Unproductivity

I have been writing about Manhattan Corbacher since I was sixteen years old. I am now twenty three and nothing has been completed.

The futility of my effort is understandable: He is immortal. I am not.

I have begun to draft random informational pieces about his daily life in an attempt to achieve full comprehension of his identity. Basically, I am writing a biography about a fictional character in the hope of eventually figuring out his story.

As if this was not unnecessarily time-consuming in and of itself, I've taken to chronicling his infinite life span in intervals of two seconds.

I am doomed. It's okay. So is he.

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