I am on this chap's mailing list. I don't know who he is and what he does. All I know is that I get around eight e-mail forwards from him daily. I don't want to be on his list. I don't know how to un-subscribe. I tried tagging him as spam. But the spam filter likes him for some strange reason. I still get his forwards, the ones he deems funny, the ones he feels that I should see and yes the ones he feels that I should forward to my friends and their friends.
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 ...
Comments
Post a Comment