The world ends here, he said, pointing to the deep abyss. All that we do is come till here and look at the abyss in wonder. The only thing that had ventured beyond that is no more, he added. Everyone looked at him. He was an old man with tattered clothes and a limp. No one knew how he became the curator of the abyss. The visitors were curious. What could've gone beyond the end of the world? What could've dared to jump into that abyss and survived? What on earth was that? The old man cleared his throat once again and muttered under his breath; imagination, without it the world will end.
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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