Paper

Forms permits applications certificates. Exams receipts statements bills. Tickets licenses deeds diplomas. Registrations schedules maps. Cards instructions lists. I can remember the crisp creases of meaningful paper. The civilized and civilizing corners. The way, once folded, the unfolded pages fall into their folds again. A memory of purpose. I have memories like that. Memories of my purpose.

Slips chits stubs. Reminders bulletins birthday greetings. Nothing is folded inside my pockets. I have no paper to name me, guide me, or sustain me. Instead, I hoard food, in whatever state I can find it. And string. And rubber bands. But when. And where and how far, how much, and what then? The day is a vacant expanse. Nothing stands out. Nothing marks off the time. There is no grid with stations to occupy. I am nowhere.

Magazines messages books letters. Newspapers tabloids catalogs notes. Do things still happen? Do things still change? I can’t tell. If people still communicate and mean things to each other, I don’t hear about it. The commerce of humanity, even the way faces can talk—it’s all so far away from me now. I see graffiti, the same unreadable words measling the city. No one’s saying anything. Traveling light? I’m not lighter for it. I’m sagging with nothing to prop me up. Dragged down by empty pockets.

Ones, fives, tens, twenties. Only hard goods—I own no paper.