Seven minutes, he gasped. The timer was ticking on. He carefully studied the wires. If he pulls the wrong one, his world will go boom. The red wire mocked him. The green invited him. The blue one was indifferent. The yellow mocked him. The violet one threatened him. The indigo one confused him. He looked at the clock again. Three minutes. Now it didn't matter whether he pulled the right one or not. The bomb was destined to blow him and everyone around him to smithereens. One more minute to go his brain screamed. He looked at them again. Red, green, yellow, blue, violet and indigo. Something is missing, he thought. Then it struck him like a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. He pulled the tiny orange wire that was hidden in the tangle. The clock stopped. The sun shone. Birds chirped. He felt as of he was born again.
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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