Sound is a thread, a string, a cord, pulling you along or pulling time out of you. The individual vowels and consonants are knots. Tie them together in this pattern and that and soon you have a recognizable word, a set of words, a pattern of thought expressed, a meaning. Perhaps a memory.

A memory, say, of a house full of plants, and forest-pattern wallpaper, and brown ceramics and bubbling orange and white glass. And hemp, plenty of hemp. Ropes, cords, strings, knotted, hanging, decorated with wooden beads. Plants hanging in pots made of knots. Wall decorations in brown rope and green wooden beads. Perhaps a purse or other bag made of naught but knotted knots in abstract patterns. Maybe a belt or two. A hammock? Perhaps not. Not thin strings knotted, not tatting or knitting, nothing micro; this is macro: macramé.

Yes, it was a thing of its time…

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