The paper is torn off. Fresh and crisp it remains. Clear of any signs of prior uses. No markings, no story, no permanent ink; it's life is just beginning.

Look at the clock. Each movement of its hands means the creation of one more word on the paper. Time causes aging and fulfillment. Gradually its emptiness is covered in various words of all array. The paper is on its way.

The end is near. The last word will soon find its place. Repetitive actions of the clock's hands have resulted to this position. The journey has taken its course; an aged paper remains. Evident signs of abundant uses is seen. A collection of words string together something significant-a wrinkled life of words, words and words.