The butcher was busy at his job. His shop reeked of blood and sweat. The houseflies were happy. They swarmed around every tiny morsel of meat and drops of blood on the floor. His lusty eyes probed everything that passed in front of his store. He didn't even spare the school girls who passed by. The story goes that one day he cut his own finger and minced it. He was too busy ogling to realize what had happened. That's why I stopped eating meat. I was a kid then. Whenever someone served me meat, I could see the butcher's finger in it.
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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