A slightly bedraggled figure answers the door. The aqua-skinned young woman seems to be clothed in an assortment of random fabrics and recently entangled ion a web made out of assorted yarn. “Sorry, I was in the middle of a… thing… I think I was trying to make a hammock, and then it mutated into art… maybe.”
A glimpse inside her space reveals walls covered with scraps of paper. Artworks, mathematical formula, and encoded notations cover every bare space. They are interconnected with various bits of yarn, which also criss-cross the room and have other pieces of paper dangling from it.
The floor is largely taken up by objects which, because they initially seem impractical, have to be works of art. And one, relatively tiny camp bed, lingering in a corner by a pile of notebooks which are also haemorrhaging pieces of paper.
“I don’t have my help guide with me at the moment… Have we met? Sara Louise… I’m sure there’s a third part…” She offered a hand, which seemed to be mostly covered in half a hand-crocheted glove. Threads of which also connected to the overall web. “And you are—?”
Paper grab her hand and shook it* hello Sara I am paper self proclaim jester of the world *paper let goes of her hand to give her the box he is holding* this is for you ,a gift for new friendship. So you make art * paper looks around from the doorway * that’s great!
“Sort of… I’m… more or less trying to piece my life together. Something on this island doesn’t like me having permanent memories. Thank you, by the way.” The box crowned an object made of beach wood. “Just… a…moment…” There it was! The one clearly labeled People I Know. “I’ve found taking notes to be most efficacious. My first few days here were… uh… embarrassing for everyone else. And possibly me. I don’t… remember.” She absently shed the half-glove so she could reach the notebook. Which had a pencil and a pen-knife attached to it by yet more yarn.
Sara quickly flipped to a blank page and said, “Do try to hold still…” vigorous scratching. “Is ‘Paper’ your only name?”
 Wood you would find on a beach. Not wood from the beech tree.
[OOC: Would be helpful to know what’s in the box so I can accurately write her reaction to it]
*paper poses* no paper isn’t my only name, but i will only respond to it… um i didn’t know what to give to you so i made you a plain berry pie thats in the box.
“FOOD! Score!” Sara fist-pumped, briefly, before getting back to her notes. “Pretty much living the ‘starving artist’ trope, so food is exactly welcome. Be warned, I may give you a beach wood whatnot. They seem to move fairly well. Uh. I mean. People want them. Not that they’re animate. Sorry. I have a knack for saying things sideways.” She added, _Gave pie. B nice 2 him._ to her notes. Then, as an afterthought, added the word _food_ to the side of the box. “Is it cultural? The mask?” Her left arm, not busy with the business of sketching and taking notes, began to take on the hue and colour of the notebook she was holding.
Cultural? *paper tilted his head* uh no it not, you can say It’s apart of myself *paper flicks a corner of his mask spinning it around on his face*, glad you like getting the pie sara.
Oooohhh… kay… That was weird. Even for the standards of this island. “Oh I like getting any kind of food. It’s a good thing I was happily omnivorous before I…” A moment of clarity. Feeding crickets inside a fish-tank mint. Smiling as she measured a captive one in her hand. Then something fast and warm and wet snatched it away from her fingers and the memory was over.
Quickly, without taking her eyes off of Paper, Sara reached up into the web above and pulled down a different notebook entitled, MY LIFE. Urgent scratchings, this time. Vigorous notes. “I… I used to farm crickets! It wasn’t hard. The tricky bit was getting them to accept the pre-slaughter flavourings. I wonder if I can swap some whatnots for a fish tank… I can find some analogies for cotton wool and egg cartons…” She shook herself.
“Sorry, I’m being rude again. Scatterbrained as I am now, I think I got up to a lot in my last life. And I just *remembered* everything. Can you imagine it? I have to leave myself notes. Carry notes. If it isn’t written down and I don’t have it with me… it never happened.” Another memory that belonged in the Red File. A screaming woman with a strawberry-pink power suit and a reek of alcohol. Sara stared at a whatnot until it faded away.
She’d given up on adding to the Red File.
“Anyway. Back to your good self Mr…” she checked the most recent entry in People I Know. “Paper. May I ask… what are you? Do you know your story?”