The floor gave away. It was holding up everything on it all these years. It remembered the fresh cement smell when it was built way back in 1886. Soon everything changed. People started walking all over it. The heavy furniture started bruising it. Anything dropped carelessly left permanent scars. Chemicals were spilled. Holes were drilled. Carpets smothered it. The weather left cracks. Not to mention the constant pressure gravity exerted on it. The floor held on nevertheless. But today was different. It suddenly felt too weak. Too weak to go on. Or did gravity become stronger? It lay there in pieces wondering about what went wrong.
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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