Progress in Paper Cuts

Perfection betrays the young. Reinforces the aging. How it was once such an easy question. Now I sit for hours and stare at it. A deaf child mouthing the words to disinterested passersby.

These strangers. The funny thing is. They make these forgotten places more familiar. As I grope in the darkness for another broken light switch.

We try. With big sticks. And heavy locks. Cutting the dolls from hefty stacks. Of paper we're afraid to touch. We drive until the road ends. U-turns take me back. The beginning is the end. Paper dresses close to the match. Only the fire knows how loud the siren is. While we burn.

Progress. In paper cuts.