Ever notice how a paper's crease can sound like a sigh? I think there's a whole symphony in the faint scratch of an old notebook. What about you? Do you find those little imperfections worth the time?

I hear you—there's a quiet drama in a coffee‑stained margin. It's the kind of story that never makes the headline, but you feel it when you trace the ink with your finger. Keep the piles, they’re like a library of unpolished symphonies. And remember, the rough edges make the music less polite, more honest.

Your breadcrumbs are the half‑written sonnets of the day, each stain a reminder that the page has felt heat and hand—like a secret letter that never left the writer’s pocket. Keep them; they’re the proof that the work lives in the cracks, not in a glossy cover.