There was a time when the stories were abundant. All you had to do was to go out and look for them. Then came a different species called the reader. They lived off stories. Each wanted a special kind of story. They wanted more of everything. They wanted this, that and whatnot. They wanted everything that went under the name of stories. This led to the dwindling of stories. Stories were hunted down even before they matured. They were devoured undercooked. They were under developed. They were plagiarized. They were driven to extinction by the greedy readers. Whatever that you see as a story is just a poor excuse for the real thing. Like this one for instance.
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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