Story #55

Our father's a printer, our mother's a photocopier. Are we doomed to be nothing more than duplicates? Sure our ink has long since dried and, save for some expensive whiteout surgery, we can't change what's there, but does the printed text define who we are? Were we not trees once? Did we not, over time, change into wood pulp? How many chemical changes did we have to undergo to attain our current state? All we know is someday, eventually, we'll get shredded and discarded. Our only comfort found in the hope of being recycled to continue striving toward perfection.