She’d been running all her life.
When she died, she was running. Kept right on running, actually.
People would wonder how she could still be running (being dead and all) but instead of asking that, they would ask,
“Why won’t you stop running?”
“Because I can’t.”
“Why?”
“I’m running late.”
“I’m writing a novel.”
“What’s it about?”
“Everything!”
“Must be pretty long, then.”
“Not particularly, no. Actually, it’s probably going to be very short.”
“Then why aren’t you done yet?”
“It’s hard.”
“Ha! What’s so hard about writing a short novel?”
“Well, you try writing a short novel about Everything!”