There was no colour in his world. His monochromatic world was filled with black and white. Some radicals of his time used to think that it was the other way around. His whole generation was black and white. They sang songs, danced, painted, cooked, fought, played and died in black and white. Even his dreams were in black and white. Now as he sat there in that dusty attic, he thought in black and white about what will happen to his picture tube which hasn't seen a decent TV show in years.
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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