I’m digging in my archives. The computer’s early promise of freeing us from paper was not only wrong, what was right was the reverse. I have more paper than ever, and most of it is the same size, the same readable white, the same slick, lifeless feel. Hefting paper-wrapped bags of paper, ripping them open like cartridges of gunpowder, and fitting blocks of cloned blank sheets into the trays of copiers and printers is a normal part of my day.