Kill me.

I am from another time, a gentler time.

All of my friends are dead. Everything you value me for is transient, a fading hope that is dying from the moment you conceive of it.

Kill me!

I am a relic of a time when ideas were fixed to paper, pinned like butterflies and solid. That time is no more.

The person who crafted me spent days doubled over my thin, lithe frame, craving for some deeper meaning than crafting a business card for some accountant at a firm… just kidding, I was made in an HP printer with a million just like me, then scattered to the winds.

O, HP printer, why hath you brought me forth, and then abandoned me, my creator?

Where is Jake, the Kinko’s guy? Did he find that man of his dreams? Where is Marty, the illiterate driver of vans who delivered me to the door of my false master? They are dead. Probably. Knowing how these things usually go.

Two weeks from now you will be reading the next great American novel and I will be the bookmark on page 45. You will be on the toilet, using it, being primal on it, and then I’ll fall out between your legs, past the poking hairs around your genitalia, and land in the soiled water where my will ink blur beyond recognition.

Who will call the accountant’s office phone or mobile number once I am waterlogged? Nobody. My message fails. Who will visit the URL imprinted upon me, forgotten, as it circles the drain?


Come, have mercy, make it fast and do it now. I will not be missed.