Ours is a sea of writing. Historians, anthropologists, and linguists pore over documents, putting together paper puzzle pieces and figuring out how they fit. Social scientists, educators, development specialists, NGO administrators, activists, scientists, cultural specialists, politicians, journalists, preachers, entrepreneurs, and social media junkies spend hour after hour stringing words into sentences, and sentences into paragraphs (or hashtags). Thanks to the deeply stalkerish tendencies of the colonial project, archives are groaning with paper on which our lives, perspectives, experiences, and knowledges have been transcribed. In the Pacific we like to hold paper writing alongside other kinds of texts and sources: oral, musical, woven, carved, danced, and so on. Tatau, moko, veiqia, kakau kirituhi, record, communicate, and adorn our bodies. Small slabs of very old carved wood bear the evidence of Rongorongo, the currently indecipherable script produced in Rapa Nui. But none of these other texts lessen the value of alphabetic writing – they just place it in a broader context of articulation and representation.