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When I was in school, I was a dreadful note-taker.  I’d take down a few bits about what I needed to know, and the rest of my many pages were filled with doodles.

And monstrous doodles they were.  Corpulent masses of fine-grain squiggles depicting everything and nothing.  The page looked like an octopus got caught in a typewriter; the inky entanglement chewed up and spat out by a massive set of jaws – rings, springs, and all.

I found them rather beautiful.

To be honest, I’m often temped to keep old notebooks.  Partly for the notes. But largely for the doodles.

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