• Hello Paper,

    Fancy seeing you here, all new and un-marked upon. But alas, not to remain so much longer. Because, for your innocence, I have this pencil, and even as I admire your smooth surface already there is the urge to write on it. To deflower this virginal whiteness is a sin far too tempting to pass by, and to choose simply reading over the ardent pulse of creation, this would be a sin in and of itself, and the greater of the two I am sure. And so I beg your forgiveness. Even as I am in the act of revoking any claim to your mercy that I once had.

    Still, though I destroy its purity, your beauty is boundless, and in my destruction I am forced to reflect on this paradox my words have created. Through wreaking havoc on the very thing for which I first loved you I am laying the pathway straight for the endless possibility of future infatuation. My thoughts, in this written, syllabic form which they have decided, give life to you, whose life I have taken away.

    Though I beg your forgiveness I know if I were to be given that chance I would refuse it, and so my apologetic pleas fall on the angelic ears I have deafened in my own defense. Even as I scribe these words on the skin of the goddess I have slain I do so in the desperate hope that she feels my sorrow and knows that my love was not a demon of my own mind, but of the anxious heart that compels me to lay down in textural scripture every iota of my being on her, on your, flawless soul.

    And now, dear one, as your consciousness departs and I must go on my way, I once again am awestruck by your perfection. No longer a thing of purity, you are now a testament to passion. To the art that makes its home in your heart and merely stops to visit mine. In my destruction I have done nothing more that create, and only have been made whole for this one moment by you, my love.

    Goodbye.