A Clean White Plane

I stepped off the dark wooden grain and onto the broad white paper of an open sketchbook. The surface was dry and slightly fibrous under my soft feet. Near the corner lay a small square of kneaded eraser. I paused, looking at its dull grey shape, then leaned forward and gently pushed my hand into it. It yielded slowly, dense and quiet, sinking under my weight without pushing back. It felt familiar, like my own clay body, but cooler and completely still. When I stepped back, a shallow rounded imprint stayed behind on its corner, holding the exact shape of my palm.