On a quiet table lies a paper, whose life is still to come, meeting a stick and a loose white string, it starts to feel like someone. No voices call out from the dark, no magic fills the room, just quiet hands and simple things, to chase away the gloom. A little bend, a careful knot, the bamboo finds its spine, the paper wraps around the wood, and follows every line. It takes some time to build a life, to make the framework strong, for pieces sitting on a desk, to find where they belong. The door flies wide, the grass is green, the sky is high and blue, with no one there to map the way, or tell it what to do. A sudden gust, a shaky lift, the ground begins to fall, the open air is wide and deep, and terrifyingly tall. The kite cries out, “I want to run! I want to break away!” But then it feels the steady string that holds it through the day. The string is not a prison wall, it’s not a heavy chain, it is the hand that keeps it safe, through turbulence and rain. From paper, bamboo, wood, ...