The night was speeding past his field of dreams. I have regained my powers, he muttered to himself. His words just died off even before it reached his ear drums. He was all wrapped up beside a reeking can of Kryptonite. The stars were dying fast, he thought. Or was it my eyesight? Either way the world looked a whole lot gloomier these days. My powers, he muttered again. An alarm blared, waking him up and his world. Another day, another mission, he thought, while searching for his cape.
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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