This rain is never going to fall, the old man grumbled looking at the blood red skies. It was their fourth year without rain. But the planet had abundant groundwater resources to sustain them for a couple of years more. In fact their planet was like a water filled balloon made of rock. Hard on the outside and brimming with water inside. Their predecessors had dug wells through which water was drawn to the surface. They had taken great precautions not to contaminate their resources. All the waste water was shunted over to a nearby planet called Earth and disposed off using special carriers called Cumulonimbuses.
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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