I'm in love with a cardboard cutout, a silhouette of once-was. She's a paper girl, a bird who's flapped stained-glass window wings in an attempt to flee from her paper birdcage life. She's gone on to a place of mystery so that she may have a place to bury her own mystery in. And that, in itself, could write volumes of paper dreams. Especially mine. But those dreams are rippable. Burnable. Shredable. Utterly dispensible. She's just a paper girl trying to tape herself down and become real. I'm tired of being the tacks, trying to pin a map of her to the wall. Tacks rip right out and they leave pieces of the map behind. Being in love with a tangible idea is tiresome work.