Tolko

''A great tapestry unfolds. A hundred thousand intricate stitches boil out across a table, weaving and crossing and tying and looping in incomprehensible chaos, joining to create scenes of grand fantasy. The colored patterns bleed heroes' blood and sing the songs of legend; they curse and laugh, living and dying and living again in their infinite parade. These figments have eyes only for each other. They do not see the threads from which they draw their substance.  But Tolko sees. And Tolko forgets. With lucidity comes blindness; moments of vision end as soon as they start, their revelations consumed instantly by the great void between the threads, replaced by the endless dream of the woven. Tolko fumbles for these threads, an image of a weaver himself. He looks to weave a great butterfly, unfurling from its cocoon, wings stretching forwards and back, on a loom outside of time. He remembers this while in the void. Someday he may remember it with open eyes as well.''