You will be born from a dream that is born from another dream.
You will be paper, and you will be ink. You will be a folded airplane, a crumpled note, a scissor cut tree. You will be ballpoint scribbles, riffs of lines, curved scrawls. You will not speak. You will be rhythm. You will be what pulled my pen across this page, what colored the b-flat blue, what made this second stop on a dime.
And I will be ( )
There is a room made out of paper, made out of ink. And somewhere else, there is a planet, a solar system, a forest, just waiting to be drawn, just waiting to be folded into place.