Paper boy stood by the near lamp post with a swung limp arm around it. His red shinning bike leaned against the post just as he, eyes starring on… He proceeded forward with a long dependent stride. Down the gravel dirt path, with the wide oak barrels, a silent, faint maple scent that blew in the breeze- a soft hint of pine whispered in the wind. His stride became of a faster pace as he entered the wood. Soft gleaming sun poured through the limbs and the branches and shone on the dewy grass. Then… touch by the kiss of rain, cold water escaped the thick walls of the forest trunks, and began to hit the tops of plants, spilling into small streams that coiled like snake tails. Down the big pine leaves branches, rain dropped like small stones to the dirt, and with each drop making the dust sink out of spot to settle somewhere else. For after the rain fell, the clouds moved, and out shone the sun again. Deeper, and deeper into the thick yellow wood and brush he ran, and ran he did to the house of oak, caked mud, and ferns. It stood in a blank spot. A thatched door gave an exit that opened with a creek. There the boy left the paper. Departing his written past. For the paper was of simple mindless words, that had been scribbled. He left the guilt behind, and trotted back down the path, that was once of his life. And proceeded delivering the peoples paper like nothing had happened.