The paper is my savior, the pen my blood, to words that shed my world.
Even a broken heart doesn’t warrant a waste of good paper.
Writing is the dancing of the mind on a stage called paper.
I don’t need a piece of paper to suggest that I can commit myself.
My life looked good on paper – where, in fact, almost all of it was being lived.
This paper was one of my digressions into abstract economics.