I am pretty sure that I had pressed the send later button. The mail shot off like a bullet from my console to her. I didn't want to upset her now. I just wanted her to read it in leisure on a weekend when she can cry over it. I am sure, the damage has been done. I don't know how to face her now. Hope she doesn't see it till I am gone. Let me slink away before all hell breaks loose. He keyed in all that came to his mind on to his so called story. It wasn't going anywhere. He wanted to be a famous short story writer. So far the only thing he was sure of is that his stories were too short to be taken seriously.
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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