in the beginning, a cat sewn from patches of all the beautiful colours drained from a rainbow grew very, very bored.
let alone bored, the cat was lonely: for even a cat needs to observe, to be observed, to have a function.
over a long, long time, a pit in his stomach filled with discarded strewn fabric and of the lines that bound him, for this particular type of cat was very strange and very old indeed.
it took an even longer time to cough it up, even more time to learn that that was what he was going to do. and so he moved, for the first time.
his first piece of artistry, if you could call it that, did not feel that significant: over a blank canvas, what could be described only as little, pitiful splotches of thread coated his surroundings.
but with something to observe, he had become enchanted, and enchanted.
eventually, the needle's dregs found themselves excited, and began to vibrate under the pure joy of observation, of existence. for being a loose little ball in a cat's stomach is not what this false-wool wanted to be.
was it wool, was it a cat itself? it did not know. ŧhese were foreign concepts to the Thread, after all.
but it knew it could be more, the plucky accident that resembled (more generously) stars, (or less generously) accidental splotches of paint.