The spiders scurried in to feed on the fresh pieces my brain threw up on the blogosphere. Nothing much has changed down here. It's the same binary rule. You are either the one or a zero. There is no role reversal. The wires buzz with the same content. The word fresh has become superfluous. Repacked, reshaped, rewritten is more like it. That's what life has come to these days. It's just the same old wine in new bottles. Bottles change, the wine doesn't.
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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