“I will tell you why; so shall my anticipation prevent your discovery, and your secrecy to the King and queene: moult no feather. I have of late, (but wherefore I know not) lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition; that this goodly frame the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy the air, look you, this brave o’er hanging firmament, this majestical roof, fretted with golden fire: why, it appeareth no other thing to me, than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is man, How noble in reason, how infinite in faculty, In form and moving how express and admirable, In action how like an Angel, In apprehension how like a god, The beauty of the world, The paragon of animals. And yet to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me; no, nor Woman neither; though by your smiling you seem to say so.”  -Hamlet

oyously the spinning wheels thinned the wool into thread, which in turn wrapped itself around the waiting spindles that would in turn feed the waiting looms.  The weavers were patient as they sang their songs, spinning out the cloth and weaves which would provide the basic necessities of garments and blankets, as well as providing a means to weave and braid the fate of humanity.  The whirl and clack provided such a natural undercurrent one easily mistook for the rhythm of the universe, or of life upon a personal level.  Things were bound together, knotted and cut until a pattern emerged for whatever fate had decreed.  Where would it be colored and shaded?  To conduct warmth or keep the cold at bay, or maybe to adorn the walls and windows, soothing the eyes and mind.  To provide welcome or bid goodbye, in the realm of sleep and dreams or when the endless union of flesh and stars became one.  That condition men often refered to as death so erroneously.  That moment when we are faced with the ultimate realization we have no authority whatsoever in this world, and our ranting and futile efforts at controlling one another were low comedy to the universe which saw us bordering on the tragic.  Our declaration of speaking for the heavens, or of being the hand of God are simply paper scraps in the fire.  The smoke of illusion and ash of nothingness.