I am standing there by his table. Like a dog in front of the butcher's shop. Not even a fleck of recognition shows on his face. He looks beyond me and talks to his cronies. He jokes and checks whether I am in awe of his mental prowess. I am not, but I play along. After all it's me who dragged my sorry ass in to his office. Looks like he has finally spotted me. Maybe it takes time for his dull brain to report new apparitions in his den. He stares, ruminates and stares again. I try to open my mind for him to see what made me appear in front of him. He dozes off. I disappear.
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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