fibres raze the bleached ball of hydrophilic thread starts to shed before it's done its duty, calving insects too slight to put up much of a fight if you were to reach out and mash them between your fingers. not that you have any great desire to see the impossible succumb to the numbness of now. death comes for us all. to delay it long enough to tell a few more lies kissed with cotton would be a great adventure. 260825 what's it to you? who go blather from