I love unfolding the crisp newspaper pages, breathing their smell of fresh news, biting into the sizzling sensational, taking glimpses of the world, and all the while, sipping the satire. I hate it when neighbours pick up my newspaper before I lay my hands on it. I am possessive about my fresh aromatic slice for the day. I want a fresh lease of life - to turn the leaves of life.
Today, I lay lifeless, sans breath.
Ran up and down, in vain, searching for the crumpled mass of paper, only to end up breathless. It's gone, no signs of breath - where is my "papyracea-oma"? A lump in the throat, a pain it is. Better to have a tumor in the brain than a no-brain. The feeling of pain is better than the non-feeling of numbness. There is the numbness of loneliness, without the company of my good ol' timeless friend - the newspaper.
Can someone find me my missing link to life?
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