Sometimes I leave pages in notebooks blank. One, two, three or eight. I think they must need to be that way. To not have words written on them. As if it were somehow just the way it should be.
And then, sometimes, in need of scratch paper to write down the date and time of a hair appointment, or to scribble a phone number, or maybe a grocery shopping list; I find these pages, tear them out.
I wonder, though, what happens to those empty spaces in the notebook that were meant to be there. Those pauses, those separations. I wonder if the words that were once apart by a single blank page then meet. If they say hello.