I guess my shade wasn't good enough for you. In a way I should be happy because now I am of some use. You use me to write on. You use me to draw on. You fold me up and make either tiny or large-scale sculptures. Some of my pieces aren't even used as I am tossed either on the ground or sometimes even a body of water. I can't even hear the wind anymore. It just blows me away to another foreign place. Ironically enough, some of my pieces have trees painted on them. How could you do this to me? I was once a sapling; a part of the living, and now I feel like nothing. Why would you do this?
