I seemed to be at a soiree of some sort. A number of adults that exuded importance had gathered and were celebrating their importance as humbly as possible. Discussion consisted mostly of philosophy, literature, and business. I only had one other person my age around. She kept explaining to me who everyone was, what they had done, etc. Then, a relatively young man joined the party and my companion became quite excited. "It's Thomas Denajero," she whispered excitedly to me, "He's the author of basically the best books ever!" Tentatively, she went over to him and introduced herself. The three of us chatted for a while. He was quite the literary genius, with a touch of regular guy about him.
Then, some sort of activity began. I'm not certain if it literally happened or if I had hallucinated it. However, one of the adults brought out a ball of fine silk string and held on to an end. Then, as he greeted someone else, he passed the ball off to them. The thread wound its way about the ensemble. It touched just about everyone, but I kept myself apart. Denajero even offered me the ball, but I refused it. The company grew ever more ensnared, and their half attempts at twisting themselves out of the mess while holding onto their threads only made the knot worse. However, they seemed happy, and they could still move about in the tangle. I do not recall feeling any particular emotion towards the thread. Not even when I stepped up to it, scissors in hand, and sheared through the silvery line. I was empty, and the players just stared at me, not knowing if I had done right or wrong. They had never thought of scissors as an option.
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