How much? He asked the old man peddling baubles. He was in a hurry. How much for this one? He asked again, pointing to the big red stone. The old man's fingers came alive. They probed the small wooden plank on which the baubles were kept. They hesitated near the red stone and moved on to a green one. He was growing impatient at the old man. The old man picked up the green stone and said One Dollar. That's not the one I want, he muttered. Oh I am sorry, you wanted the big one, said the old man. That will be Two Dollars. What drama, the old fool wanted to push the green stone, he thought. He handed the old man a five dollar bill. The old man caressed the note and then proceeded to sniff it. Damn, why did I even have to buy from this loon, he thought. Could you please spare me the exact change, nowadays it's tough to make out the worth of money, said the blind old man.
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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