Curfew

If my future is set, then I'm already dead,
I've never been alive; I've always been in bed,
In my grave, I lay; I'm six feet under,
I know the future; it’s quite a craze,
But with a blink, my life was a haze,
Could somebody, who creates, just as easily kill?
Am I a work of fiction, is my life a writer’s thrill?
But why would a writer, write something so mundane,
Unless he’s a failing writing, and knows not to refrain,
I think I've just broken my curfew, spoilt all of his fun,
I’ll become a scrunched up sheet, with me, he said he’s done.