I am a little bit scared every time I set out a new stack of pristine paper... between the ink & grease & little toddler hands & oh! all that stuff on the floor. somehow I seem to make it through the stack and then I just stand back and marvel that somehow this sweet, sweet pile of paper has passed through my press and my hands and my little messy world without a single (visible) mark. it may be the only pure, clean, and orderly thing in my life, but there it is :: precariously perched on a table full of chaos.
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