Things That Are Made of the Same Thread: The carpet. The blanket on the arm of the couch. The dog pressed against the leg of the dad. The toddler's mid-topple, arms out, believing in the floor. The grey that comes through the window without asking. The not-turning-on-of-the-lamp. The dad's slack back against the couch leg, which is the couch leg's way of holding him. The tucked-under legs of the mum, which is the floor's way of keeping her. The half-played game, which is the children's way of staying near. The wool of the world. The loop returning to itself. The window that is honestly grey and does not apologise for it. The ceiling with its lamp off, which is the ceiling's best offering: just ceiling, just there. The last of the July light, which is not a metaphor, which is just light, going.