• In my hand I hold a line
    black as ink, a thread so fine
    I could bend it, have it change shapes
    and for each new form, a new sound it makes
    I grab another line, place it by it's brother
    take out one more, another, another
    soon the sound gives a image
    emotions, feelings, a definition

    This black thread will never end
    It was here before we existed, and long after we're dead.