The story never appeared. It has been three days since it ran away in to the woods of my memory. I have been searching for it day in and day out. I searched the vales of my childhood, the meadows of my youth and the alleys of my present. It was no where to be seen. Maybe it sensed that I will trap it on paper for ever. That's why on the day I sat with a blank sheet and an eager pen it ran way. I will wait for it to return, what more can I do?
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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