He was good at stealing. Ideas, concepts, thoughts and dreams were his speciality. His victims never realised that they were robbed. He used to strike at random. Whenever and wherever he came across anything that will be of some value to him. Today was no different. He quite liked the idea she presented. If he acted fast he could make it his own. The only thing that held him back was that he liked her more than her idea. He wanted her as well. He was sure that if he stole her idea then she would hate him for a lifetime. So, what was the way out, he wondered. No bright ideas came his way. "I have been stealing quite a lot these days that my brain has stopped working", he lamented. "It's better than someone stealing my idea", he consoled himself.
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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