The delicately woven fabric of our illusions wear us down: our tenderly held together threads, fraying over years of accidental pulls, intricately tied knots, and general misuse.

We desperately seek another similar source to cloak that which we are, and are unsuccessful in our searches. Our smiles become grimaces forced upon those we wish invisibility from, our shadows sag and tug at that place deep within that reminds us sorrowfully of what we once were back before we cared.

Before a label was something we placed a modicum of importance on.

Our fashion is that of a hollowness born out of our displacement. We tread each others threads. We tread.