Why the heck am I writing melancholy stuff? Is it because I have nothing else to write? Maybe deep within I am missing my melancholy self. Or is it because I am way above all this crap? Is that me who is speaking? Why am I keying in this? Has the muse left you man? Have you become so old that your brain has frozen? I need a break. Look at all those questions I have asked. I avoided the question mark as it will make the previous sentence another question. So, where were we? Ah! We are in this man's muddled brain. See the grey cells aren't firing the way they ought to. He needs to be overhauled. Dude get me a spare brain from the refrigerator. Hey, you don't have permission for that. Only GOD has the power to do that. Then why the fuck do they call me Darwin?
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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