I am not real. My body is merely a vessel that muscle contort to cause a walking motion. My number in society is somewhere in the system, somewhere, but I'm not too important. My translucent hands show thin purple lines under the then sheet of paper. Later on though, the purple will turn black, and the paper will look burned, gray and black, falling apart. I do not exist, at least, not to the millions of people that gaze up at the night sky, hoping they'll find purpose for themselves. If I were to disappear, only a hand full would care, not millions, nor thousands, or hundreds. Just a small amount compared to the large school of fish that walk on land. Meaning is the key to my lock, but it was dropped down the bathtub drain a few years ago. I couldn't fill it out, my fingers just got caught in regret. But, life goes on, until my paper meets with my lighter.