You don't know. You are just stating stuff just for the heck of it. You don't see what I am going through. You are an idiot. You don't do anything about it. You just sit there and stare. You don't move a finger. You just don't seem to get it. You don't listen half the time. You look as if you are seeing it for the first time. You keep forgetting that I am in this shit with you. You don't respect others. You are always late. You are always the last to know. You are dodging work. You are not responsible. You don't love me. You don't have time for me. You don't take care of us. You don't comb your hair. You don't smile. You just don't seem to get enough of it. You don't own up. You are a lazy bum. You never do anything right. You are always broke. You stink. You drink like a fish. You flirt shamelessly. You don't think. You...
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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