The hands straightened out a crumpled piece of paper. Let's not endow the hands with an epithet, for epithets, they say, are the biggest enemies to nouns. Besides, comments and conjectures are smoky things in futility.

So, the hands straightened out the crumpled piece of paper.

And the deed was done. Quite unnecessarily, quite done. An action was performed. Call it restoration of identity, or violation of privacy. The deed was quite done. Restoration of identity, so it was perhaps. But what if the paper understood or realized its identity in its crumpled-ness! What if the state of being crumpled was home to it, in the sense that it signified the acceptance of having been damaged quite beyond rehabilitation and therefore served as a guard against any further intervention from external agency! The sensible world, however, will not confer identity to paper. As if dealing with plurality of identity in living beings was not challenging enough! So on a sensible note, what if the crumpled paper was not a paper but a grave. A grave which held within itself errors unpardonable..perhaps, a dream unattainable, a calculation gone all wrong, a sentence in incorrect grammar, a misplaced answer to a resolute question, a glaring folly in a meticulous plan, or perhaps, simply the stray handwriting of some little darling that had not learnt to write in straight lines...

So, as the hands straightened out a crumpled piece of paper, a mistake was unraveled. Light fell upon the creases...is a crease a wound...?