Its been six seconds. Why isn't he pulling the cord to release me? Has the adrenaline fogged his reflexes? Is he pushing his luck? Has he passed out? Or has he lost count of the seconds? Either way it's not a good sign for me. He should have let me free. But then why hasn't he tugged at the release cord? He is going to make me look like a complete fool. He is going to ruin my show. He is going to pay dearly for his folly. For it's only me who can help him ease gravity's pull and guide him to safety. Till he figures out his life let me enjoy the free-fall at least.
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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