I have been around for so long that wishing someone a happy new year has become so cliched. No one I had wished earlier is around to prove that my wish had worked for them. Some seemed to have a good time while others didn't. I feel it would've been the same even if I hadn't wished them. Maybe it's my age that has nurtured this cynicism. Geologists claim that I am from the paleolithic era. That's why they have kept me secure in this room, away from the vagaries of pollution and solar flares deep in space. From here I see my Earth spinning happily and churning out year after year. Before the lights in my room go off, let me wish you a very happy new year, anyway.
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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