"'I am half-sick of shadows,' said the Lady of Shalott." -Lord Alfred Tennyson …but half of her bends towards them, these whispered tableaus, her spine tilting backward. She carefully hordes them like granules of opal. Her hands become lacquered in half-dreams and dyes, and her tapestry spins into colors so rich even she is surprised that her fingers have laced every cross, every stitch. She is sick of half-shadows; she wants the thick darkness to drown her whole essence. These sparkles and dayglows will stir her to madness in milky-white crescents, and she will sink into nothing without any name on the heirlooms she weaves; She will fade into nothing, and no shadows will weep on the day that she leaves.
that line in Lady of Shalott always stirred something in me; I suppose this is my attempt at a tribute