Paper

Paper


Points


Ticket

In the queue, the ticket rubs against my palm.

Fluorescent light cuts it into strips.

A voice announces order: number.

Paper becomes a map that doesn't say destination.


On the seats, the shadows count silences.

Someone folds a piece of paper.

The time stamp is gently pressed.

The series progresses like a hand in a movie.


A bell resembles a small verse.

The signs polish our proposals.

The ticket falls; it is no longer property.

There remains a spot in the middle of nowhere in the city.


The clock cuts the air in minutes.

Every minute is stored in a paper bag.

My voice records: sequence, number, light.

I keep this little sign as a guide.


Plate

The sign is flashing: wait.

Words are carved into aluminum.

Outside, the crowd flows like liquid.

Inside, time remains in decay.


A letter is missing at the end of an instruction.

Absence becomes a regulation of movement.

The seal has no voice; it leaves a mark.

My eye counts the dots like shifts.


A shadow sits at the back of the door.

The sign light draws a face.

He doesn't ask; he just points: a passage.

The city is learning to speak with signs.


My voice takes the image as proof.

I place it on the map that has no roads.

A red dot points: here.

And this becomes a small trace of the day.


Evidence

The machine produces a paper, cold and thin.

Printed numbers like a cardiogram.

A click, a spark.

Paper folds, preserves time.


In my pocket it looks like a memory without a name.

The stamp on the top shows the date.

I don't recognize the day; only the order.

I follow the printed trail like a route.


At a kiosk they throw it away as useless.

For me it's a small map; it leads to doors.

The words on it are active: PAID.

My eye reads them like little commands.


A line in the middle divides the world.

Above: service, below: obligation.

In every cut, I leave a trace of voice.

The paper whispers the date it is leaving.