The weird thing is that it has been more than a week since I blogged. But then nobody noticed, not even me. That's the sad state of bloggers in this wide wide wide blogosphere of ours. I have waited so long so that I can post something that makes sense. Something that lives up to what I have keyed in as my blog's description. So here I am raving and ranting about nothing. Something inside me says maybe you haven't cracked the insight. Or is it my fight and my vision that's getting muddled? Can we brainstorm again and figure out what life is all about. I am going to stick by the ways DDB has taught me. Next time I blog, it's going to be my origins and history that I will be baring before you all.
I have to write. Those were the words that escaped the dying man's lips. He was found lying unconscious near a mountain of blank paper. His autopsy revealed over exhaustion as the reason. But what did he want to write so badly that it killed him, no one knows. The task was designated to the junior cop who was part of the investigation team. Let's call him Namura. So here we are with Namura in a room with the mountain of blank paper. He is awed as to why should there be so many papers near a dying man. He picks a sheet on the top. He studies it. It's as blank as blank papers can be. No pencil or pen has violated its virgin whiteness. Namura thinks of the white bed sheets back home. He is tired. All he wants is to crash on his bed. He feels angry about the whole situation. Here I am, staring at a blank piece of paper, wondering why someone who wanted to write so badly didn't write a single word, while the whole world is sleeping on their comfy beds. He wanted to tear the ...
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