I was one a million. No make that two. We were racing towards our goal. That's when it struck me. Why follow? I can make my own path. So I raced in the opposite direction. The rest of the fools rushed past me like lunatics. They were jeering at me. They don't know what it takes to be the leader. And what it takes to be free. After all only one or two of them will get to the egg. While I, the renegade, will be roaming free. Is that a light? Looks like I have reached the end of the tunnel. Now it's my time. Hello world, here I come.
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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