Context
The sheet is as fine as vellum, delicate as a rose blossom. You handle it with utmost care, you hardly breathe, lest it fall to bits in your hand. You can see light through it. You hold the square up to your eye, look at a blurred world through the interwoven fibres, sunbursts of light glowing around lightbulbs and windows. The sheet flutters at your breath as you lower it from your eye.
It could be a thing of great beauty, maybe, in a different context.
You make a mental note not to buy this brand of toilet paper again.
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