Vaclav looked at his hands. His skin has started peeling off. He had experienced this before. Every time, a new Vaclav used to emerge from within. At first he used to dread it. But now, he waits for it. He knew that mother nature will have some surprise or the other in store for him. Last time a fair skinned Vaclav had emerged. This time what will it be? Vaclav couldn't wait anymore. He rushed to the taxidermist's shop. The taxidermist resembled one of his dust covered masterpieces. It was impossible to imagine him wielding a scalpel. His vision had blurred long back. His shop was in the ruins. These didn't deter Vaclav. He was eager to get out of his old skin. He lay on the taxidermist's table motionless yearning for salvation. Like always, the taxidermist disemboweled his new specimen with a clean sweep of his scalpel.
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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