The man sits at his desk, piles of paper surrounding him. The bleak, colorless walls stare down at him disapprovingly. He grabs a snowy-white sheet of paper from one of the numerous stacks. The man lays it on the desk and folds it in half, all of his carefully programmed brain concentrating on one task. He folds it again. Again. Again. It takes the shape of his childhood, a delicate paper swan. 

His eyelids flutter shut, dreaming of flight: freedom. The man's eyes glance at the bird again, a thing crafted for beauty, not practicality. Useless in everyone's eyes. And he knows that the bird yearned for the sky, but would never be able to do any more than sit on a desk wearing a guarded expression. The man's thoughts, feelings, hopes, all surge together into one idea- the bird must fly. This bird must be different from the rest, separate from him and his stagnant life. 

The man tosses it into the air. 

The man watches it fall.

The anger surges over his carefully built wall in a violent wave, his emotions akin to an atrophied muscle, neglected for too long. He runs out of his well-manicured office and into the wild sun, his thoughts fueling him on. The man's rage, akin to a quavering match, grows in strength and intensity until it swallows the bird whole. 

The smoke and fear shove the bird into the sky, the smell of boiling oil as different from the sweet smell of hope as could be. The bird seems to be held in suspended animation for a second before shooting into the sky. The once-white paper, now black and red, seemed to peer down at the man one last time before exploding in a burst of incendiary yellow. Yellow, a color that some call happy. 

The man looks up, breathing laboriously. His mouth twists into a smile, an uneasy grin of relief and doubt. Relief that the bird had been something more in its last moments. Doubt that he won't be the same. 

The man walks back into his office, legs stiff, back straight, nodding at his assistant and attempting to recall his name. He sits down at his desk, the silence pressing down upon him. He picks up a sheet of white paper. Lays it on the table. Looks at it. Puts his head in his hands. Cry for help that can never be heard. Crumples the paper up and throws it against the wall. 

He looks up. Minutes, hours, maybe days later. He dries his eyes, his mind becoming the sterile prison it always is. The man blinks twice, erasing the failure from his brain. He is in control. He always was, until a few moments ago. The man strolls downstairs. Across the sidewalk. Looks both ways. His feet begin to make a decisive path against the hot pavement. Each step brings him closer to reality. Farther away from the land where birds fly and emotions exist. Closer to a blank white box filled with blank white paper.

Keep breathing, he tells himself. In. Out. In. 

It only takes a second for fate to notice, a second for fate to laugh and do what must be done.

A car, trapped in the grasp of time. Hovering above the ground before slamming into him with manufactured energy.

On the ground. Pain. Flashing lights.

One glance, one look.

The car was yellow. A taxi. A car meant for transporting a plethora of people. People fleeing their pasts or running towards their future. People meeting friends or going off to college. Young children with hope. Weathered veterans with too many memories. In the end, it's only a hunk of metal. Man-made metal covered in a thin veil of paint. 

The man manages to open his eyes for a second. A moment in time that will never be repeated. Most say it was nothing. Just a blip. It was enough for him. 

He exhaled, silent and insignificant, as his once-vibrant world faded into a wash of black and white.