We let ourselves loose on that simple blank piece of paper, and our bodies spill. The terror, the loveembodying our stories page after page. In a sense, the pen was our tongue, it is how we delineate the world.
In an age of infinite digital documentation, paper was the last safe place for secrets.
The paper burns, but the words fly free.
And I wanted to tell her that the pleasure for me wasn't planning or doing or leaving; the pleasure was in seeing our strings cross and separate and then come back together.