That would always be the last thing he'd remember, before he fell into slumber. Even now, a grown man, his head still falls heavy to swirls of soft purple, the light stains of doves, white and fluffy, ever so slightly smudged over, almost luminescent.
He would always open the window for them at night, giving them the chance to fly away, if they so desired. After all, what good to a boy is a caged paper bird.
And so was his ritual, still to this day. Let in the moon's shine, let the breeze fill the room. Window pain through open for hopes to soar through. Mubles of goodnight, and sleep tights, and the ever lingering invation of open darkness at night. He would fall asleep, doves burned into his eyes.
And only at that moment would things stir and rouse. The wallpaper birds would drink in the mood, soon ruffling their feather, with joy only paper can feel.
Still the same dreams live in the mans head. And origami bird always flits through his dreams.
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