When the thimble rusted into a whirlpool in the palm of my hand, the golden silk threads were protruding from the blood vessels - they were not silk threads, but the code of destruction engraved in the flesh by the nine veins. What was woven in my chest was not a cocoon, but the totem of destruction that my mother had not finished embroidering back then.
The scar on the back of my neck suddenly became hot, and I saw countless "selves" broken into threads in different time and space: a certain pair of hands were threading a needle, and the blood dripping from the tip of the needle dyed my cuffs red at the moment; a certain heart was embedded in the core of the loom, and its beating frequency resonated with the thimble in my veins.
And my body, which is being transformed into silkworms, is just a mending thread spit out by the loom of reincarnation - used to sew up the gap that should have been burned to ashes, but every time the needle is threaded, new flesh and blood is twisted into the embers of the fire in 1995.
