I haver that huge box of souvenirs buried into an 1900 attic sawdust, which upon removal revealed a thick layer of old newspapers dated 1935, local and provincial writings, mostly about religion and banditry, petty stuff, nothing like the massive wave of bullets chasing the unawares going by along their own life string, only to be cut down...

However, each must thread along its own invisible life's path, never to be aware from what might surge out from infinity, like it is a bird, no a bullet zapping one as an insect might be from the innards of that blueish light noisily scribbling it's own death call to all unawares of it's wares;

People all create a path built upon discards, intersections with other paths, all meaningless to them, yet still very much alive from within, through and through this fragile plane called paper;

We are slowly going out of the paper into the digital realm, never seeing ourselves slowly dissolving out of all papers.