I bought a magazine and had the spine cut off to use the magazine pages as drawing sheets, and only back at the office I saw on the spine this poem:
The free bird thinks of another breeze and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn and he names the sky his own.
But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing
The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom.
— Maya Angelou
And somehow it was very appropriate because I had just made some sketches on freedom and, well, it speaks to me.