At night when you’re weary and you want to forget, simply stick your head up through a piece of paper. Sleep in a sheet of paper and pull it up over you so that you cease to exist. Paper can be opened up like shale and a thin layer of pain can slide in dark and deep like a sliver. If your body is full of pain, if your heart is full of anguish, simply wrap yourself in clean paper and pray. Paper is a blotter to such things. Paper absorbs psychoses and silent screams. It is an endless realm and each sheet is a portable window into further eternities — white unwritten eternities, waiting for limbs, hats, heads to pop up. Look, there is a body in the milk! A great whale arising, an ancient civilization. Look deep into the milky lens of paper and realize why you can’t just lie down and die. Because there is a trick alphabet at the bottom of paper that explodes — a deep electricity, thin filaments of feeling running out of sight to a white pool you can dive into from the heights. A forbidden milk. A detonator.