It was a cold winter night. The soldier dragged himself in through the broken door. He looked around, there was no sign of any inhabitants. The whole place was covered in soot. The resident spiders didn't much like his intrusion. The soldier was too tired to notice anything. He plonked himself on the dusty sofa and put his feet up on the broken stool. He wanted to sleep and wake up in another world where there was no war. Little did he know that 20,000 ft up in the sky a nuclear missile was seeking it's target.
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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