The grasshopper looked at the man pounding away at the keys in disdain. What's that fool doing staying awake late in to the night and fiddling with something that doesn't yield him any food? In grasshopper parlance it was sacrilege. In grasshopper land time was well spent procreating, hopping, singing, chewing tender leaves, hopping, moulting, laying eggs, excreting, contemplating the next hop and a million other grasshopperish activities. The grasshopper hopped a little closer to the man. Now he could see what he was doing. This damn guy was writing about grasshoppers! What does he know about us? How dare he write about us? The grasshopper went hopping mad.
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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