The world is spinning damn fast. So fast that today is yesterday before we know it. The words just gushed out of his mouth like soap bubbles from a washing machine's drain. He sounds so vague, she thought. For her every day was like an eternity. It just stuck there like an ant trapped in superglue. Nothing changed in her life. So what is this guy talking about. Which planet is he from? Hard to believe that we are stuck within the same four walls. Now he was yapping about how close the generation gap is in China. Damn, stupid guy, we are all guided by hormones. If I want to mate I won't wait for the world to stop spinning or the generation gap to widen. I will still resort to the primitive instincts my great great predecessors deployed before they evolved in to us. By the way it's the same instinct that got him in my room in the first place.
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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