The paper man, assembled from every expected aspect of the canned society. Written down and stored in a box.
A box stored in the heart of the man.
A man who does all the things “expected” of every man of the age. He goes to work, he pays his taxes, he chases women.
Doing what he can to pass the time until death comes.
But there is a dark spot in the man. A spot he fears to enter. The time between the script of his created self and the next day.
A place where there is nothing. A hole that exists in where there are no tasks to be completed. No smiles to put on. No hands to shake.
Thats where it shows itself and he dare not ever enter it.
So he fills that gap with booze, with drugs, with women. It blurs the gap, fills it with a hazy memory, easily forgotten.
For that, that is the spot where dreams lay and he dare not dream. For dreams are unwritten, unscripted.
Dreams are unknown.
Dreams could be fire. Fire could burn this paper man, leaving nothing but the horrors that live in the boundless wasteland of the imagination.
The Restless Raven 