“Like delicate lace,So the threads intertwine,Oh, gossamer webOf wond'rous design!Such beauty and graceWild nature produces...Ughh, look at the spiderSuck out that bug's juices!”

“BEYOND THE MIST, the darkness and shadow, he waits, reaching out through a veil of gossamer threads—‘yourfuture,’ he whispers, ‘your destiny’.”

“...I'd like to know what you want out of life.""I don't know what I want anymore." I toyed with the delicate lace on my pillowcase, wishing that lovely things didn't have to be so fragile.”

“He bit his fingernails. He bit his toenails. He pulled tiny green threads from his shirt and tried flossing his teeth. Then he tried making little green designs with tiny, tiny knots. Then he hit on the idea of weaving messages. Could he macramé "Help, I am a prisoner . . ." and plant it on the back of someone's jacket by static charge? If someone ever came back, that is? He got as far as a delicate gossamer H, E, L, caught the thread on a hangnail while rubbing his stubbled chin, and reduced his plea to an illegible green wad. He pulled another thread and started over.”

“She was a classic beauty. She looked like a coin, so it was only natural for her to circulate.”

“Each event touching another; like threads that design in concert, creating the fabric that is life.”