Like a tower it stands.

A disgusting protrusion jutting out from the landscape.

It was reminiscent of the warped branches of the apricot tree in the midst of winter, that orchard a tangle of branches like hair cogging a drain. This structure had been compacted into an even more compressed form, but yet it still stood helplessly in a contorted position. It was sickening.

There was no growth here, it stood slightly off in an enormous field. Standing in front of such, one could see no other man made form in sight. The winding stone walls left over from centuries ago did not reach here, as if those farmers knew it was a waste to raise anything from this land. Alone it stood stark against the tall, dry grass visible for miles. No snakes slithered through the field, one could find their shed skin, but not a single one alive. Your legs would not be bitten, instead hidden from view, disembodied, swaying listlessly in tune with the grass.

The creator of such a terrible thing must’ve been similarly twisted. It couldn't have been any other way. Its conception came from ambition like most every other thing, but it was quickly left abandoned and purposeless. Perhaps the maker had died, perhaps they had become bored, started and ended on a whim. But it is evil to not follow through, for both the abandonment of the creation and for those who do not abandon their station.

It is irrational.

There was no reason, no conviction, and yet it still stands.

A lack of conviction does not mean a lack of integrity. A tower will not collapse, and the one who lives inside will not leave. They may leave the confines of the inside to the outside, but they always circle back to where they began. That’s what it means to do the rounds. The tall grass immediately around the structure had been beaten down and flattened, here it was still easy to move. Venturing outwards, the strands grew upright in proper posture, although the grass did not grow. Some other futile whim maintained their existence. Wading out into the distance, no matter how far one would travel, stalks would scrape against cloth armor, brushing against arms, wearing down the barrier between it and the skin. Not out of malice, there was simply too much. It produced an awful itching, staying out too long would not result in just the stiff grass wearing one down into nothing, but one’s own hands scratching and grasping at flesh through fabric. The armor was meant to cover from head to toe, no sight could view the figure underneath, yet the armor let everything through. And still it was worn.

In this sense it should be a relief, but rounding back to the solitary structure was just another uneasy existence.

The outside was chill and biting, the clouds were stationary, the overcast sky a permanently unfeeling cover. Moving from the clinical undimming light of the outside to the even dimmer inside was a disorienting adjustment, further made so by the shift from damp to humid. Inside was warm, but instead of a welcoming embrace, the warmth was sticky and ill. No thrum betrayed a furnace or even a pulse. It felt like shoving a body into a half dead, unmoving thing that refused to die.

The color of the interior was similar. Textiles were draped over walls and floors, to the point their original appearance was less a memory and more a non concept. A rusted red like dried blood was the predominant color, stained on every surface. The color of the rugs never strayed outside the range of a healing bruise. Subdued yet robust.

At the center of the first room was a solitary loom. The machine that processed each and every bolt of fabric. Fibers pulled from the cascading fabric on the walls were then fed into the loom, torn apart and threaded into a new textile to be repurposed without purpose endlessly and once over. Venturing out into the field, tall grass could be plucked and snake skins could be collected to be processed into new fibers. An introduction into the cycle. How did they gain such a range of color? Maybe through the reweaving they became closer and closer to this place’s heart, inseparable. Every piece Interconnected. A thread spun in each corner and over every wall. Not a single square foot was left alone.

Wander aimlessly outside or work the loom over and over, either choice had no real end, but they were the only things to be done and therefore would be done. There was a particular hanging carpet on one of the higher levels, it had hung for ages, perhaps forever. That would do no good, it should be brought down to be processed. It was hard to know which floor, each one blended together on an ascent. Moving up one level at a time the walls would be scanned until that certain pattern stood out, or gave a convincing enough feeling that it was the right one.

To ascend was to climb up a circular staircase that led around the inside circumference, cutting through each and every floor, theoretically completely destroying the structural integrity they have. And yet it still stands. The already limited light also diminished the further one ventures up, in infinitesimal increments. However, it becomes quite the noticeable change after a week or so of ascending, and even clearer after the week or so of descent back down to ground level.

There was another, much more immediate change. The higher up, the higher the expectation for it to be colder, parting with the warm earth, escaping that heat to the heavens where the wind blows strong, sneaking through the outer walls, a given with such flawed construction. Instead, there was a terrible warmth growing as one climbed. It clung to the body and would not leave. As if being digested. Subsumed into floor boards and smooth stone. Masticated, gestated, chewed up, spit up, and swallowed. Vomit rushing up through the throat.

There were floors above this one, but it was not wise to go any farther. If only for the fact that this point had not been traversed past. The lack of light and surrounding heat was awful, like being in a constant state of losing consciousness without being relieved of misery. The countless patterns on the walls were visible enough to look like they were moving, dripping down into the floor, pooling around unsteady feet. They dragged the legs down too, moving in unison, curling around fingers moving across the floor in a crawl. Everything came together. Over and under and through. Another to a discarded pile of rags. Grasping at one removed it, and there was that certain feeling. Normally halfhearted it now served to differentiate, the only sense of what was right and what was wrong. But how far away from the ground was this level? There is nothing here that is grounded. The thought was slipping like silk cascading through fingers. New ones weaved in between what had slipped in order to mend the gap. The chamber had five walls, a safe and easy number. In order to accommodate, each wall came to a corner. This is what the creator had known, a safe and easy logic. Lodging into a corner, the walls were closing in at the sides as they met one another. Bringing a hand up, it was thrust into the corner. The hand pushed through bolts of fabric and carpet. To become it was to move with it.

Threading the needle, a body through the corner.

It was overcast, it always was. Tall grass slowly swayed. There was no wind but they still couldn’t stand to be still. They splayed apart from the mass that laid on top of them, facing the dull sky. The ground was quite cool, somewhere under the tangle of felled stalks. Breath was visible in the air, it wasn’t so cold to be a danger, and the breath was warm enough to warrant it, maybe it was damp enough out to fog up. Getting up and getting bearings. There it was.

Like a tower it still stands.

Disgusting affront to nature constructed as a cruel half thought. Central base of operations, the current destination after completion of the rounds. A drastic insult to the landscape. The unchangeable. Unshakable. Always standing. To where one would always return.

And in turn another mass stood. Covered in an armor of layers and layers of fabric. Different patterns swirled and swept across the form, a rustic range of wheat and dried blood, curling over and under each layer. No bone or flesh was visible past the shadows hanging from the few gaps on the pile of cloth. If there was an original appearance, it was less a memory and more a non concept. Breathing with no movement. Breathing with no air. Breathing with no temperature. Surely such a thing was dead. As dead as the grass, as dead as the snakes. As dead as that structure. As dead as it still stands.

Gloved hands brushed against the grass, moving against the fibers that made up that form. No difference between body and form. The landscape is the body, the body is the landscape. The body abrasive as it grazed the grass, horrifically itching and scratching with nothing to be done, wearing it down into nothing. Not out of malice, this was duty, this station was not abandoned.

Another horrid thing stuck out perpendicular to the landscape, but this one moved. Slowly and consistently as it has always done. Moving towards that which was stationary.

The ground floor was not warm and inviting, leaving the grass field to the stamped out perimeter felt like another abandonment, unintentioned but evil all the same. The inside remained covered floor to ceiling in fabric. Cascading down to the floor, haphazardly swallowing each other up. Despite their nature the carpets allowed for one thing. At the center of the first room was a solitary loom. It was the machine that consumed each and every string and fiber that made up each bolt of fabric, to be cannibalized and reborn, an endless inbreeding.

At this loom was a body, with cloth armor that encased everything, head to toe, still worn. Ready to work

There was a particular hanging carpet on one of the higher levels, it had been hung for ages, perhaps forever. And since that would do no good, it had been brought down to be reprocessed.

Gloved hands brushed against the cloth, scanning until a certain thread stood out. And there it was, a loose thread hanging from a worn gash. It was then wrapped around a finger, did you forget something? And then it was torn. Unraveled, brutally ripped off. How generous, frayed edges were so easy. To pull apart, to rend from each other. Lined up in order, threads woven through each other, the horizontal were first. Plucked off like wings being torn off of a dragonfly. They fell to the floor just the same. Then all you needed to do was to rip out the vertical strands. There were layers and layers of cloth, all to be systematically shredded, torn apart, fibers falling to the floor. The body slowly lost its mass, rags ripped and thrown away, all that it was in pieces. Smaller and smaller it grew. Every string is attached to another, and is made up of fibers made up by fibers. Yet ultimately, no material was destroyed, only reworked and remade.

Stripped of everything revealed nothing. No flesh made up the body. What was hidden was not there. Now there was only the last layer remaining. An old snake’s skin, dried and cracking apart. Once again it encased nothing. No matter how brittle, it would go back into the machine.

Strung up, strung out, fed back into the loom to feed it. Unspooling that thread its all tangled, but each and every knot is found and undone through retracing and retracing and going in circles until the rounds are done. It still unwinds. Loose and terrible but receivable, and into the loom.

On occasion the wrong string is pulled in, it snaps, yet its no more untied. This body can never break, only tighten, until it's time to change shape. Tendons and veins lined up and collected like thread intertwined through the walls and the floors. Sewn with a needle of bone. It still stands. Nothing is separate. Just interwoven. The body is the walls is the landscape is the floor is the tower. And it stands. Wondering how it gains that robust color, it must’ve been close and closer still to this place’s heart. Its body. A life of its own not given to others. It is others, is the dead is the creator is the armor. And is the grass is the carpet is the dragonfly is the snake is the skin is the circle. No end, no angle, no ambition, a cycle that never starts. It gains life, given to it solemnly. It is a non concept. If they ever were. What comes first is the heart is only the heart as there is no first.

It stood. Like a tower it stands.

Maybe through the reweaving they became closer and closer to this place’s heart, inseparable. Unshakable. It was done. The reprocessing had resulted in a new rug, set to the side to be carried up. It would find a home on a higher floor, unsure to which one. Upon ascent, there would be a certain pattern that stood out, or there would be a convincing enough feeling that it was the right one.

Irrational perhaps, but those were the rounds, and they were carried out without fail. Even if there was no reason. To do otherwise was evil.

No conviction. No purpose to follow through, thread through the eye of a needle.

And yet it still stands.