There's something about an empty sheet of paper. All the possibilities are there, and they're endless. You can write down a name, a number, a question, and they could all form the beginning of countless tales, stories that could be remembered and hailed, or forgotten and laughed at, for years to come.
There's something about a shriveled-up, scribbled-upon sheet of paper. It suggests history, hardship, work. In a way it's sad; all the potential is gone. In another way, it's…