text: The little paper puppet dances for the pleasure of others. She twirls, swooping her arms up and down, lifting each leg time and time again in perfect pirouettes, much to the pleasure of the crowd. Little do they know it's always the same motion, each and every time, in front of different audiences, in different locations, in the rain, in the dark, but always the same swoop and delicate bounce. Her arms stretched upwards as if to form a chalice, in which to capture the last rays of daylight before the dark comes again, so that she may sip on happiness until the inky unknown passes. The master puppeteer is not known to her. The only thing she knows of her Master is the Purpose he has given her: to dance, and dance, and dance, and dance. And for a while, this is enough. Dancing is enough. Until one day, for the first time, she falls. Picking herself off the ground, she feels the heat of a thousand pairs of eyes burning through her, as the audience grows restless. Battered and bruised, she can no longer support her own weight. "O Master," she cried out, rubbing her throbbing ankles with tender care, "send me the guidance I need to carry on. I am but a puppet; I know nothing except dance." After a moment, a booming voice, smooth as honey, resounded from above. "Then, my ward, you must dance." So with purple, swollen joints, she hobbles on, this time a little less poised, this time a little more unstable, but nevertheless still dancing. Always dancing. And after a time, once again, she feels a searing pain slice through her feet, and collapses onto a field of broken glass. With hot tears streaming down her cheeks, she throws her now-bloodied hands up to the sky and cries out "O Master, what now? I danced as you told me to. But I can go on no further. How may I serve you?" Just as before, a voice called down, this time coarse as the gritty sand of the Sahara desert. "Your purpose, dear puppet, is to dance. What will become of them if you don't dance?" And all of a sudden, the little puppet became painfully aware of the patrons in the shadows, waiting for the continuation of her endless performance. And without anywhere else to go, and without anything else to do, what could she do except oblige? As her perpetual journey continued, taking her though the jungle, then the ocean, then the twinkling stars of the skies, and then finally into the depths of a burning inferno, she found herself, the shell of what she once was, falling to the scorched, ashy earth once again, with the flames licking at her feet, screaming like a banshee. This time, she did not ask for guidance. What good would it do? She could not even move a muscle. Her Mission was over; she had failed. As her breathing became more ragged, she heard the voice, this time ice-cold, speaking once again. "You must go on; the crowd must be entertained. That is your Purpose, and you only exist alongside it." With his remarks falling on deaf ears, he grew more angry. "You think you can just abandon your duties, and lay down forever, and never have to dance again? You'll wither away into nothingness. The only way to save yourself is to keep dancing. Unless you keep moving forward, you will lose yourself." And when the little puppet refuses to move, with one sharp motion the puppeteer yanks the strings up, pulling her from the ground and twisting her into the endless cycle of spinning. Her bloodcurdling screams are drowned out by the cheers of the audience, enamored by the show that is once again being put on in front of their eyes. Into the distance she goes, dancing, and dancing, and dancing, until the flames surround her completely. The little paper puppet dances for the pleasure of others. She spins, jerking her arms up and down, throwing each leg time and time again in chaotic half-circles, much to the pleasure of the crowd. Little do they know it's always the same motion, each and every time, with blood dripping down her neck, with dull, unobservant eyes staring lifelessly onto the crowd, but always the same rag doll being controlled by the same master. Her arms hang limp by her side, for she has no strength to capture any more hope or joy, and as the inky unknown grows darker, so too does her light.