We missed the feeling of paper but there were no more trees. Just nickel, and cobalt and manganese.

Bookshelves lined with plugs and hidden wires. Words on Permanent Pixel Papr™ bound in recycled tires.

With Papr pinched between our fingers we sit and think in dreams: of how the fibers felt to hold beneath the window’s beams.

Of forests filled with trees with every chance to grow old. Of the shade and air and furrowed bark that wrapped their tender souls.

Then our minds return, and we swipe our fingers across the screen. And watch as the page before — too quickly — fades to history.