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Fixing my copies and folding them and remembering the pleasure of engaging in making zines. It makes me feel like a 16th century printmaker about to drop a killer pamphlet (it's just poems).
The act of making something is dipping your hands into the stream of countless people across a vast expanse of time and bringing them back to life even if it's for just a moment. But that moment lives on in the lifespan of the object you made, this is what an afterlife is to me.
Kinda like how when I'm woodworking I feel the millennia of knowledge distilled into the sharp edges of my knowledge, when I'm making a pot I feel the muddy fingers of someone making the same thing a myriad ago