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Taking my time, I shape each fragile thread with the care I can give with these
battered old hands, long worn coarse by the rasp of the wheel, each string given time
to—what? I spin each thread, light, thin and frail, with these hands that still shake and slip.
Please understand, I don't mean to. It's just that I'm old. I've been sitting here
so long my eyes don't know light. All I know is the wheel, is the skein. Is the
universe spinning in its well of night? Are the galaxies still where I
left them? I know that the suns still burn—most of them, anyway, know that the
nebulas mimic these hands. I can feel that still, down in my welcome-less
pit at the center, the heart. I just hope that my uneven threads, my tensed
hands, have not wrought too much darkness. That things will work out, that there's still time to— 

 

 

               II. The Allotter

I confess: frequently I slip up, slip threads that have their allotted time
past. I don't mean to, it's just that I hate to see such brilliance go through my
grasp without fully appreciating all its color. I think it'd be
criminal letting it go unremarked. Who else notices? Clotho? She
focuses too much on wool. She's the spinner, but I—I'm the weaver, who
takes it and makes it to measure. It's gone once it spills from her spindle. I
gather it up, spread it wide, let it shine in the light. Who can blame me if
I let it linger too long? (Well, I know who, but that's not the point.) I just
like to observe it. I'll measure it short if I have to, but sigh to see
how much is wasted. It seems a real shame to cut short all that radiance.

 

 

Soft-hearted, both of them. It's a rough job, I'll grant, but it's a needed one.
No light shines eternal. If it did, how could life thrive? Even dark matter
has its place. That's where I sit, waiting. In the end I'll be the one to cut
you off like some cosmic bartender. That's all, go home. And you will. You'll go
back to the black at the heart. You'll fade into deep space, become stardust and
flame. I'll cut you off and all you will see will be void. You'll be void. You won't
think, you won't scream. You'll just wait where I've put you. There's no malice here, only
work. It's a job to be done. And I'll do it with pride. Call me judge, jury—
just watch me long enough, you'll see. I make no apologies for what I
am, what I do. I'm the scissors, scythe, uncaring, grim. My dear—you are too.