One square centimetre of paper had made a journey from the lab to the street, to my hand, to my core. In our surround sound sweat lodge, the absence of decor blooming w/ accellerating synaptic combustion, we beheld the glory of an ultra-clean latrine and the doomed perseverence of Man. Then the fireballs shot up like unharnessed elevators in the writhing of what was once a woodgrained door. We all saw and felt it and laughed at our common, vibrating ache, aware now that we best friends could not rely upon the world nor each other. "The world is thin as paper," I thought, and dutifully acknowledged what I had so long repressed; that before a life is started it already has passed.