The Monotonous Memories of a Clothes Line
It's not every day that they come out here to see me. Some days they just walk straight past me, and some they don't appear at all. I don't mind the wind and the cold, the rain and the sun that I have to endure. I just stretch out my arms and stand among it all, alone forever.
When they come, they carry a basket to me, filled with soft fabrics of all colours and sizes. They stud my web of fingers with little wooden pegs, and hang the fabrics upon them in such a precise manner that I can only spin in delight and admiration at their creation. They disappear then, usually for a day's length, and I am alone once again. At this point I always wonder, why they adorn me with these colourful gifts, and then I revel in the strange and wonderful scents that they bring to the air. I spin around and watch the silky ornaments twirl and dance at my fingertips.
Time passes, as it does, and I question if they are in fact gifts at all, for soon they come along to snatch them up again and carry them awa