“Rosemary had built her world of fabric and cotton around her, meticulously sorting and separating her buttons by colour and size, filling each corner, each crevis with them till there was no space for even her. They fill her cushions, her shoes, her books and her teacups. They pull apart her clothes, growing like vines and ripping their seams. So, she leaves, pushing a path through the debris, leaving the last remnants of her world behind in her footprints. Her buttons, her fabrics her wool and her thread all seep from the room, all leaking in the direction of the door, seeking their masters return and leaving their silent workshop behind”.