The dead cat had a secret to tell. It was the secret that killed him in the first place. He had come upon it by chance, like all deadly secrets. One day while he was basking in the early morning sun he saw a man placing a sign on the fence. It said danger and had the picture of a lightning bolt. Nice trick thought the cat. How can the fence hide a thunderbolt? Until he climbed on it and saw his nine lives get jolted out of his body by 3500 watts.
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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