"Why won't my thing print? Can anyone figure out this damn printer?" "It's out of paper," came the yell from downstairs.
He looked closer. "Nevermind, hon, it's out of paper."
"Where's that printer paper?" he muttered, rooting through the dusty cupboard on his knees. "Here we go." He opened the printer tray, ripped open the ream of paper, and froze.
Single-spaced print covered the top sheet of paper. It looked like a story. He looked closer. A biography, starting when the subject was an infant. Skimming the first few paragraphs, he saw the baby was born in the same town he'd grown up in, and an itch ran down his spine.
He looked at the next page. Also covered in print, this one related some story he vaguely recalled his mother telling of his childhood. He cut deep into the stack and flipped through pages up and down, each covered with the same print. Digging deeper, looking for an end, for the present, he looked faster and faster until he came to the last page, where he saw text still appearing, one character at a time.
On the last line, he read, "And his final act was to realize that"