One day, a pile of paper sat in front of me, on a desk. Wondering what to do, my mind drifted to a a familiar place. Almost instinctively, I grabbed and then wrapped my hands around my grandma's scissors. Singers they were, metal sleek and cool to the touch. I liked the way this was going. Slow and deliberate, I focused on the task at hand. I knew what I was doing. "Shing, crunch, shing." Just by looking at the serrated blades I could hear the crisp sound they made. For at least thirty seconds, nothing else permeated my mind except those sounds. Something fluttered to the floor, unbeknownst to me. I was done. Excited, I promptly taped and hu