A tired wink Even a tired wink is too much for you. You, paper mummy, there, in your library. You feel nothing, nothing touches you, even if an oak tree would shake all its leafs, you would see a wooden lighting bold. Well, congratulations. Your whole oeuvre fits in your daddy's invoice binder. Now you've heard it from someone else, lily of the valley, traitor, blank-stick. With your mole face you sniff out words from the books of others, rearranging it all into poetry, sniff, sniff, with your pointy nose, to which the shavings from red pencils of poets past seem to stick a little too easy. Bye, scholar. The paper says hi to your dad. That's right, the paper.