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With fingers weary and worn, with eyelids heavy and red, a woman sat in unwomanly rags, plying her needle and thread.
-Thomas Hood
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With Fingers Weary And Worn, With Eyelids

Thomas Hood
With fingers weary and worn, with eyelids heavy and red, a woman sat in unwomanly rags, plying her needle and thread.
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Inspirational Red Rags

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Needle was robb and bran and rickon, her mother and her father, even sansa. needle was winterfell's grey walls, and the laughter of its people. needle was the summer snows, old nan's stories, the heart tree with its red leaves and scary face, the warm earthy smell of the glass gardens, the sound of the north wind rattling the shutters of her room. needle was jon snow's smile. he used to mess my hair and call me "little sister," she remembered, and suddenly there were tears in her eyes.
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From woman, man is born; within woman, man is conceived; to woman he is engaged and married. woman becomes his friend; through woman, the future generations come. when his woman dies, he seeks another woman; to woman he is bound. so why call her bad? from her, kings are born. from woman, woman is born; without woman, there would be no one at all.
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Since the first human eye saw a leaf in devonian sandstone and a puzzled finger reached to touch it, sadness has lain over the heart of man. by this tenuous thread of living protoplasm, stretching backward into time, we are linked forever to lost beaches whose sands have long since hardened into stone. the stars that caught our blind amphibian stare have shifted far or vanished in their courses, but still that naked, glistening thread winds onward. no one knows the secret of its beginning or its end. its forms are phantoms. the thread alone is real; the thread is life.
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Paris was sad. one of the saddest towns: weary of its now-mechanical sensuality, weary of the tension of money, money, money, weary even of resentment and conceit, just weary to death, and still not sufficiently americanized or londonized to hide the weariness under a mechanical jig-jig-jig!
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We are born of woman, we are conceived in the womb of woman, we are engaged and married to woman. we make friendship with woman and the lineage continued because of woman. when one woman dies, we take another one, we are bound with the world through woman. why should we talk ill of her, who gives birth to kings? the woman is born from woman; there is none without her. only the one true lord is without woman
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And she loved a man who was made out of nothing. a few hours without him and right away she’d be missing him with her whole body, sitting in her office surrounded by polyethylene and concrete and thinking of him. and every time she’d boil water for coffee in her ground-floor office, she’d let the steam cover her face, imagining it was him stroking her cheeks, her eyelids and she’d wait for the day to be over, so she could go to her apartment building, climb the flight of stairs, turn the key in the door, and find him waiting for her, naked and still between the sheets of her empty bed.
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