Weaving - Scratch Scratch Scratch

“Hmmm Hmm hmmmm hmmmm…. Hmm hmmmm ha… ha-ha-ha ha. Ha ha ha-ha. Ha… He… HAA HA Hmm…” Repeated the old man. Unable to find the tune.

“Mice making messes of my metal… Ha.” He laughed to himself once more as he scratched the dull knife against the dirt floor of the cold, quiet alley.

Scratch scratch scratch.

A hole. A hole in the dirt no wider than a finger. To those that passed, he was but another mad man. Forgotten by all but the ground upon which he lay. None could see that this was the edge of all things. None, but the old man.

“Oh sweet, oh dear Ziel,” he whispered. Pressing his ancient, bony nose into the hard, cold earth. Breathing in the dust so his dying eyes could see.

A hole. A void. A vacuum into nothingness. Scratch scratch scratch. Scratch scratch scratch. Deeper. Deeper the hole sank.

“What a mess you’ve made in my blood.”

Scratch scratch scratch. Scratch scratch scratch.

So empty. So hungry. So… Oh. He’d almost forgotten himself there. Almost lost the thread once more. The old man split a crooked, ugly grin. To think what he’d once been.

There. Far as far can be within the hole he dug. Like a pinprick in the distant sky. People danced, sang, lived and died. The grin widened. Scratch scratch scratch.

“You do me so proud, dear Ziel.” He mouthed wordlessly.

“Hmmmmm hmm hmmmmnmn,” He hummed once more. The unheard song permeating all.