Everyone told me to work hard.
So I did. The past blended into the present into the future.
It was once rough to the touch, like a potato sack.
Now it's faded, a green-gray expanse of old sunbeams and bitter stains.
Now it slips easily through the hand, now woven into the downy felt.
Why is there so much of it? I'm only a child. Not an adult.
Why am I supposed to make a suit with it? I wanted to weave a tapestry of light -
But they told me to work. I have to make more.
The cloth is fresh - fresh for the staining, the imprinting.
And this moment slips away, just like the others before.
Not like it used to.