Messy Scroll

Now I know: the threads are voices, and the voices are unreliable. The thunder that assails our ears today may be barely audible tomorrow. The color, the size, and the weave are constantly changing; the familiar ones are being adulterated by unfamiliar ones, which seem to be addressed not to me, but to everybody, to nobody. This is a scintillating fabric; it is charming and senseless, draining the sense out of me. What am I to do then?

I rolled it into a bolt and took it to a tailor whom I know. He shook his head:

— My customers expect a suit to be a suit; they will get upset if a dress suddenly turns into a pair of shorts. If the weavers were to manufacture kaleidoscopes at their workshops, this would quickly turn into a mad circus. Fortunately, the weavers are serious people.