His spam box showed 666 mails. The devil was coming for me, he thought. Of late, he had been getting worried about selling his soul to the devil. He was approached by his minions in various forms. Some tried to be his buddies. Others blatantly sold sex. A few offered to lengthen his penis. The vile ones offered him copious amounts of cash. The temptations just went on and on. He always fended them off with a clever click that sent them all to his spam box. But today, was different. The number 666 stared him in the face. He felt tempted to visit his spam folder. There in the midst of all the temptations lay an email from an old flame.
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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