I scattered a little snowstorm of paper onto my scanner bed to rest on. I had a big page of text and I wanted to dice it and make it meaningless and indecipherable. Sometimes I am meaningless and indecipherable. That's an important part of being alive, probably. I only thought of scattering these little squares all over the glass, but then I realised I could move the stuff around into shapes and patterns instead of just a blob of segments. So the circle became my favourite. A circle always seems like such a cool and important shape. A circle, if it was a person, would probably squeeze you real tight and give you a tenner. Maybe I'm overestimating the circle, but it's probably never going to be a person, so it probably doesn't matter.
I suppose I made myself a little bed of confetti. What's so fun about turning one thing into lots of tiny things? The smell of the paper is nice, I'll give it that. I suppose it's the movement of cutting and watching the little pieces fall and then scooping them up and patting them into formations. Every little part of that was simply pleasant in the same way that looking at a daffodil or stroking a puppy is pleasant. And besides which they're nice objects. Tiny pieces of tone or type. It's possible I'm being too romantic about paper. It's also possible that I'm being absolutely correctly romantic about paper.