Someone stole my pen. That's why I couldn't write all these days. You know how difficult it is when you don't have your pen, don't you? I don't have to tell you all this, but still I feel morally responsible for not writing and entertaining you. Don't you want to know who stole my pen? I am the one who had stolen it. I hid it where no one could find it. I searched everywhere else to make sure that it wasn't there. I didn't tell anyone that I had stolen it. I was too lazy to confront the blank pages. I was too blank to string the words. I shut my own conscience. I am a thief.
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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