The story is simple. And it carries no deep meaning. No profound intricacy. No obscure undertone. No sophistication. The story is just scattered on the wooden piles. Like restless gazes.
I would like to believe that the story is original. I would like to believe that I wrote it. But nothing can be original. Nothing is unique. Nothing unusual.
The wait is in vain. I can’t write that story. There are no puzzles to solve. No turning, roaming and searching around. No tearing apart. No drowning in the soil.
So the story ends here.