Look closer. The gray house, the dead grass, the unwashed car. This hideous stain in otherwise perfect neighborhood uniformity. Now do you see that speck in the backyard?

            Meet Joe.

            Joe cuts out sections of the newspaper. Smooth lines into sharp edges with one swift motion. He stacks the cuttings beside him and gazes up at the sky. Does he see us? No—he’s looking for something bigger, deeper. Something akin to God but not quite. These thoughts are merely speculation, of course, but his face speaks what words cannot render. A soft breeze tickles his nose causing a sneeze. He digs for meaning but feels foolish.

            Meet Wind.

            Joe does not read the cuttings and chooses one at random. He begins folding a simple pattern. His fingers move like machinery and manipulate a nearly-but-not-quite perfect paper airplane. He folds the rest and they all sit there proudly.

            Sunlight peeks from the overcast as he studies the wooden fence on the other side of the yard. Look closer and you see the dead grass is not really grass at all but thousands of decayed paper airplanes. Old to new to very old. Years of ruin.

            Today will be different, he thinks (probably).

            He considers the first airplane before letting it rip. He remembers making it just six minutes ago. Such a short amount of time to be something but expectations latch on and never let go. This is an airplane. It is supposed to fly.

            Joe holds the plane steady and closes one eye for proper targeting. He lines the plane’s nose with the fence’s horizon. Not above, not below, but precisely where wood touches air. He bends his elbow back and launches the plane with hope but hope dies quickly and it crashes without spectacle. The paper graveyard thickens with a new body.