The magic of patterns

Drum, drum. Their fingers ease through the fabric, hitting the surface with an endless beat. Tiny hands spitting colours forth, each shade splatting on the cloth with enough force to creep onto the table as well. Cursing, the workers wipe the colour off. But unbeknownst to them, the dark blue has got other intentions than being cleaned from their stations. Slipping through their notice it creeps forth, battling hand after hand. A precarious mountain of textures looms before it, shaking only a little, it manages to squeeze through a crevice underneath said pile. It wobbles with joy, its liquid ball a jiggly mass of excitement. It found the palette. Rolling over the hurdling side it joined its brethren, praying for another chance to pattern the cloth.



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