Paper Route

So I have this paper route which I guess I deliver by automobile, a black sports car. And I get the normal paper for that day + the supplemental. And the paper is normal, but the supplemental for each paper is completely different. One is the size of a comic book. Another is a giant coffee table book. Another is a map. Another a large magazine, the size of the the old Interview, another a box with handles and flaps, sort of a pop-up book. No guidance as to which one goes to each customer. And I'm late, for I keep thinking and calculating how long the entire route is going to complete. It keeps getting longer and longer, because as I assemble each paper ( the news and the supplement), I stop and have to consider each one, because folding is different each time. I begin to stop and look at each of the supplements, and each unique one draws you in. I stop and read one, the comic book, and in it, there are no word balloons, the action is silent. In it, I'm in an large subway station like Grand Central in New York. I walk to a train, and I notice the people around me. As each one moves just out of the appropriate range, the begin to disintegrate, first their features fall away, then their muscles and skeletons lose their coordination, and collapse in a jellified jumble. I go down the stairs to the platform, some of them are just ahead, some behind, and then I pass a mirror and I notice that I am slowly discorporate, my features are falling away, and my dust is being inhaled by the patrons around me, and they know that the proximity to me is what's keeping them whole. They run to keep up, not get too far behind, sniffing the air desperately. But I am slowly being consumed. I start awake, realize that it's a full five minutes later and there is still all these papers with the bizarre supplements to be folded. If I don't hurry it will be halfway through the morning before I'm finished. The next supplement is hard cardboard, about three feet high, and shaped like the lid for a grand piano. It's printed black on black, like a Warhol album cover. I open the hinged lid. I see photos with word balloons. In it, I'm in the airport, and trying to find the gate, people are following me again, the same people, and I'm beginning to recognize individuals from the last time. We approach the gate, and I'm paged. I pick up the phone. A voice tells me to……