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April 17, 2007
I am merely two-dimensional, as flat as a cardboard cut-out, rolling through my days on small casters. I take up very little room and am stored with almost no effort: just turn me sideways and slide me into a slot beside the refrigerator or behind the ironing board. In those small spaces I fit quite neatly.

My surface is smooth, not corrugated. Mine is a slight, buffed shine that reflects only softened, dulled light. You cannot and will not see yourself in me.

My movement creates no breeze, no wind. My casters are squeal- and squeek-free. I make no impact.