Designer's Prologue

What’s happening to me? I’m usually very protective of my wardrobe, But you’re staring at my arms and I don’t seem to mind. You’re footsteps patter closer… Scissors grate old threads that shriek with fear; But moments later sigh in relief. My sleeve! My sleeve! You took it, it’s gone! Red ink spews from my arm, An iron potion protrudes my nose A metallic river you damn yourself. Why would you do that? Foreign fabric has never been so genuine, So forgiving, So trustworthy.