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This is the Paper Man, who rustles when he walks. A hundred million folds dot his cheeks. His eyes flutter when he claps.

This is the Paper Man, whose back is square and broad and wavers in the wind. His limbs tumble from his corners. Turn him to the side, and he will be invisible. Fire frightens him greatly.

See him stumble, in the dark. You could roll him up in half and play drums with him, or you could spread him flat on his back and write on him. He does not mind. He is the Paper Man, and he can be anything you wish him to be.

He remembers everything; his skin is etched with cuts. His blood is ink; his tattoos are blue. Those who read him tell him they know him. They do not know him. He is one of a tribe, stuck fast together, and etched into his head is a number. He does not know his number, but as long as it is there, he is one of a tribe.

Sometimes he likes to lay about, gulping up the sun. When it is hot and dry and the savannah is yellow and brown, he tans. He becomes the color of golden wheat. He does not mind. There are no Paper Women to impress.

The Paper Man is young and lean and tan. He slips, he slides, he rolls. He is an agile gymnast, and his edges are sharp and cutting. This is the Paper Man. He rustles when he walks.

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