Transcendental Scraps

Out in fistfuls from his parka pockets, more scraps of paper. So many, some fluttered to the floor. Cigarette packets inside out, gum wrappers, scavenged street papers of many colors that are slipped along underfoot by the winds of traffic, scraps become transcendentally unfamiliar but the use they’d been put to: Lines of poetry in a fixedly careful, cramped handwriting. 

- Women in the Their Beds, Gina Berriault