The talking jug stopped huffing. Maybe it's because the stove cut slack on the heat. They were quite a couple. The spoon enjoyed this whole scene unfolding in the kitchen. He was lying next to his beloved plate. The plate was dreading when the damn spoon will start pillaging her beloved pancakes. The pancakes were enjoying their honey bath. The table and his chairs hated this whole set up. They came from a mighty Oak deep in the woods. So they refused to talk to anyone. The man of the house meanwhile doused the stove, manhandled the kettle, held her upside down till all her contents drained off. He then sat on the table, kicked aside a chair, grabbed the spoon and devoured the terrified pancakes who dripped honey all over the plate like a wounded beast.
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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