somehow it's lying there, brings a stillness to the air

Idle, tender, the crocheted carpet rests. Its form is function; its shape is unremark. Its make is the tattered remains of crafted residents past, unraveled and unfurled alike upon the island.

Think of the joy these features bring: the flowers, inanimate; the bows, perky as they wait to be returned; the Egg Plant which cannot be unbound and is as much like a machine.

The yarn is at home with itself, only embellished by gems and fluff notions. It gives with weight as an organic creature; it bounces with the simple life of a fibrous contentment.

It's a warm world.