I found this prose poem on the back of half a menu card from my 1999 Air Canada flight from Washington DC to Paris. I must have written it somewhere between the Norwegian smoked salmon and the chicken breast with wild rice:

What is a writer without paper? Taking scraps wherever one find them: receipts, squares of paper shopping bags, airline boarding pass stubs, menus–anywhere there is even the smallest space to mark the writer’s thoughts, whether it be on the sea, how the sky is filled with cotton balls, or the next philosophy of our age.

A writer without paper is just a writer in between thoughts.

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