Life drained out of my body in spurts. The cut to the vein was surgical. Poor heart didn't know it was being drained. It just went on with its involuntary business till there were no red blood corpuscles ferrying oxygen to its muscles. I had lost consciousness long before these happened. My central nervous system was trying to save me by inducing a blackout. But, soon it also blacked out. In the blackness two words shone like fireflies; the 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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