Lazlo sits all day meticulously crafting paper airplanes. After folding and creasing, his ball point pen comes out and he carefully draws dozens of tiny windows along both sides of the craft. He fills each with passengers of all manner – men, women, aunts, uncles, fathers, sons. Barristers, clergy, the lonely, the afraid, the loved and unloved. Bald men and pets, all strapped in tight. As he draws their portraits, he speaks aloud their story. Why they got on the plane, where they're headed, what they hope to find when they get there. Intimate details, far beyond their physical appearance. By the end, anyone nearby knows the story lines of a thousand made-up souls, created there on the spot by Lazlo's mind.
At the end of the day, Lazlo takes his hard work to the cellar and immediately throws all of the planes into the furnace. Gone in an instant.
Then he gets some cake. Usually.
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