This is our thread.
It frays a little, sometimes a lot.
There could be parties, but usually only two.
It runs through gossip and rumors, information and doubt, fears and hopes, love and anger.
Sometimes they just end, and once and a while they burst into flames.
But these are our threads. And we weave them each, we blind quiltmakers.
And together the quilt resembles the quilters, our collective portraits in garish and subtle words, timestamped emoticoned.
It keeps us warm.