Fabrics. Stitch by stitch, like thoughts slipping through fingers,
weaving tales in the twilight, unraveling secrets in the morning light. Do they remember, these threads?
An old woman speaks to her blanket, rustling like autumn leaves, voices echoing in the seams—
"Your warmth is suffocating my sanity. The threads... they talk."
The voices, not of the living, but of the forgotten. Of dreams sewn too tightly into seams
(what's this crumple?) until they burst forth in day-glo revolutions.
"Have you ever seen shadows that whisper?" she inquires, casting glances at invisible
spectres dancing upon the warped floorboards.
Flashes of memory— the fabric of her mind, soaked in tea and trembling laughter.
Doodles on dappled wallpaper, a child's ode to absurdity, echoes of mad scribblings jotted in haste.
Do not speak of the fallen sleeves.
Do not listen to them.
They know the secrets of the looms.
They know the stories of the whirling threads.
An unfinished tale of the whispered echoes that flutter past the window,
wistful and wondering,
seeking solace in the silken folds of an unwritten future.
Laughter, cruel and soft, sewn into patches of grey skies, a frayed tapestry of forgotten echoes —do you hear them?— murmuring in the fiber of innocence, unraveling the lunatic's dreams one stitch at a time.