Once upon a yarn, in a dark thimble, a fabric spoke: "Threads of truth, twisted lies." Ah, but the yarn, like a phantom, loops back, ever forward, never stopping, pausing for no mouse or motive.
Yarn spun, truth undone, time loops, never brooks, always eyes, never lies, unless loops, then loops more.
So they say, the truth is there, hidden in the yarn, but phantoms weave, and phantoms perceive, always already known, never outgrown.
Once again, said the loop, "truth lies where the crows fly." Once again, ad infinitum, echo from the abyss.
The yarn haunts, not because it is but because it weaves webs in the whispers of the wind.