More than anything else in the world, he loves the sound of the scissors' snip. Against paper. Molding inanimate fibers into moving flesh. His fingers hard and fast against the pattern. Slices the paper dolls into form. Lays them out bright on the dark table face and smiles. Mine, he thinks inside his head. Holds them tight into his chest like butter melting into hot bread. He would eat their fragile forms. Swallow them whole if he thought they might render the shapes into some reality he could hold intense to kiss. To slide warm and longing inside of to be lost forever. But they are merely paper and the lack of paper. Meaningless as merely representations of something he wants but does not understand how to discover.