They found him face down in a ditch. He was drifting between consciousness and blackness like a pendulum. He heard them whisper stereo. He thought he heard someone laugh as well. He was the quiet type. He knew he could crank up the party if he wanted. They used to call him Mr. Boom Before he ended up in the ditch he was leading peaceful retired life in an attic. There was no one around to disturb him. But then life has this nasty way of shaking things up. He was spotted by the kid he dreaded the most. He was no longer a kid. He had grown old, developed a serious meth problem and was always on the lookout for trouble. That day in one of his drug induced tantrums he just ran up to the attic and started kicking things around. That's when he spotted the long retired family member. Family or no family, the kid grabbed him and flung him out of the attic window. He fell on top of a passing truck that was jostling down the street. The very same truck moved around town with him precariously perched on top for a few days. Until he met a stubborn branch of the roadside oak. the branch swept him off the mobile abode and he landed in the ditch. He was hoping that someone would come along and rescue him. No one came, he could hear them talking about some trick bomb and terrorism and all. So he lay there thinking about those glorious days when he would belt out song after song.
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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