Leaves
of paper fall our way, wherever we go. Newsprint, quickly aged. Brown paper of
every shade, pleasing to the eye. Handmade paper embedded with April leaves,
pinned up a season, turns drab. American roughcut book paper is solid and moneyed,
but other times fifties Penguin Classics pages, fawn and fine’s the thing. The
paperless office promised paradise: we waste hours at screens we should spend
in a forest. The world profits from wickedness: sometimes prayer’s all that’s
left. But a writer with a little A4, practical and white, finds a corner to put
up with things a bit longer.
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