The air smelled of old books, musty, like they had been sitting in a closed off room for years. There was also a dampness that permeated.
Little sun shone through the canopies of the trees high above, each fighting with its neighbor for space and light. The light that made it through was green and sickly, like it had struggled for some time before reaching the ground.
It reached stagnant water, pools and traps waiting to engulf an unwary passerby. The land was treacherous, waiting to plunge any animal. Stacks of water-logged paper made for poor footing.
Paper was piled into hills and hummocks that skimmed above the water. Some was glossy and had to be closely watched. Even what little wind made it through the closeness could send pounds of paper in every way. Thick sheets of papyrus formed the bedrock, static until it succumbed to rot. There was writing on the paper, in all forms of ink and print and style. The lower pieces were worn to illegibility. The higher offered tantalizing hints to the people who had written them. Love letter, contracts, books of religion and romance, all could be found in the swamp.
A downed log lay in the murk, slowly decomposing. Instead of xylem and phloem, long pieces of cardboard and poster board provided its support. Some leaves still clung to the branches, where once they'd striven to the sun. Each leaf a sheet of paper, the source of the detritus that littered the swamp.