Shortly after he’d sent it off to the press (the press, who USE that??? Everything’s online these days, isn’t it???), he’d died, just like the protagonist I his final work had, on that very last page…
As the readers flipped and read through the story of that final work of literature he’d created, they couldn’t help, but see the similarities of the life of the character he’d created and his life too.
His last novel, the manuscript was found, folded, tucked away, on that pile of papers on his desk, as he was, old-school, still believed in the values of handwritten things. His last novel, it’d, detailed his own life, and, compare to all his other works, this final work of his, seemed, even closer to reality.
His last novel, it never had the chance, to see the printing-press (uh, as if we still use that these days???), and, the legacy he’d left for the people who came after, still wasn’t reduced one bit………
His last novel, it was, soon, forgotten, by the world, and, these days, as his name came up, nobody knew who he was, but, oh, that guy that wrote something that got published, long ago………
Life, the Obstacle Course 