I like funerals better than birthdays or weddings. You are free to shed a tear or wallow in silence. You don't have to smile unless you have to. You don't have to socialise much. You don't have to shave or look your best. You are not forced to eat or drink. You don't have to bring a gift or your family along. You can just be a face in the crowd. You can slip away when you feel like. Best of all, you will never be attending the funeral of the same guy again. Peace.
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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