III "... some paper ? Any type would do ." The receptionist hands him two square sheaves of leaflets . That should be enough . He finds his mother in a different room this time , with her marbled flesh and cardboard bones , drowning in her cruel disease . Yet her struggling smile is redolent of simpler halcyon times when it was her that taught him that we all aspire to be like paper planes ; adrift in the dawn-lit evening , aflutter in the bleeding silence . He leaves all of his gratefully constructed creatures with her . Some of them are slightly salty wet . He hopes she doesn ' t mind .
IV His father berates him as he tears apart hundreds upon hundreds of his own creations . He couldn ' t describe the expression on his father ' s face . As an intricate paper snowstorm cascades in moth-like fragments upon his bedroom , he tries , in vain , to clasp his paling youth . Perhaps , it is then , there amidst the torpid tears and voiceless words , that his empty eyes catch a glimpse of heaven .