Posted by 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.
