It begins with a thrusting of a needle, for she needs new clothes to wear. And they must be fashioned by her, they must be woven according to her own design. Once this is done, and the clothes are hung upon flesh and bone but cling to nothing, she will sit. It is there that she will sit for a good, long while. And while she sits, she will remain perfectly still. Still, until something occurs to her.
And then it will be melodies upon our ears that stand no chance of becoming outdated or inconsequential. She will make them out of her fancies, out of her dreams, and to life they will spring, and to her merriment they shall attend.
Until, until, until.
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