At the end of the day, no matter how much I eagerly threaded the needle through ravaged cloth, the strings never quite tied nicely, never went through the needle perfectly. I had lost my nimble fingers, that created the most elegant and beautiful clothes. Now they shook and bled. The wounds have never healed, though they have faded, they would never let me return to what I had. My livelihood, what I admired, what I enjoyed, my craft, my being, was unreachable. I laid in bed with only the mirages of the past keeping me going, and the sinking reality that the present, nor the future, could be fixed.