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“Get this: how many Weavers does it take to screw in a light bulb?'

Kate folded her arms, her expression aloof. Acciper pensively scratched his beard, withholding his ignorance.

'One?' ventured Vivian.

Lucian's boyish face split into a grin. His body filled up with the imminent rumble of laughter.

'Two Weavers. One holds the light bulb and the other one spins reality around it.”
― Louise Blackwick, The Book of Chaos

“Yesterday, she said, referring to the collective past of her tribe, the people of these forests knew the secret. They made the finest silk thread from the cocoon of a beautiful sleeping butterfly. The women reeled the silk thread on the spinning wheel, slowly and gently. Such delicate work it was, that the silk remembered, at last, the moth which had created it. And the women were awed at the silver shine of the silk produced. If the silk is so divine, they thought, what must be the beauty of the butterfly waiting to be born? They stopped breaking the cocoons and looked for the crimson wings of the butterflies emerging from the torn nests of raw silk. The sight took them aback. They became sages and storytellers. My mother’s mother was one of them.”
― Lidija Stankovikj, The Outcasts - A Thousand Dreams of Redemption