They call this the slaughterhouse, the guide's voice echoed off the empty halls. Slaughter house? Then why is this surgically clean? As if guessing what was going through every visitors mind, the guide continued. This is where great ideas were crucified. That's the podium where E=MC2 died after being stoned with quantum physics. And that my friends is the apple tree where the serpent sold his ideas to Adam and Eve. The very tree that dropped an apple on Newton's head giving him gravity. Isn't it evil? Well, who am I to plant my ideas in your mind, the guide guffawed. The eerie silence that filled the halls was marred by the hushed whispers of the visitors. The are getting ideas, thought the guard. For years he has been doing this and he knew what will happen next. Are you getting any ideas?
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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