If I were a bird, once I was done with free-wheelin' in the clouds and conversatin' with bees and flowers and things, I would return home to my nest. And what would my nest be made of? Why, paper, natch. Scraps of ancient manuscript and offcuts of pricey lineney stationery and whatever bits of delicious, battered, mysterious parchment I could get my claws into. Would I be a bowerbird? Probably. But then again, it's only hoarding when left unused, stockpiling, right? And I use my paper, every last shred.
The thing about beautiful paper is the drawing often emerges from it. That's half the work done before you even begin.
