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.