Weft and knots

in dismal cursive, a post-it note from a fellow worker berated me this morning, good-naturedly, i’d say. it said i’m back to my infamous labile mood swings. the note further said, this doesn’t go well with the pontiff visiting the city. for this, i bought my painfully honest office mate a tall coffee without sugar. if a major painter, say goya, had trouble painting a particularly horrid hapsburg face, he’d simply scrape off the paint and start afresh. but my life is so much like that of a carpet weaver.  i have already passed the weft after a row of knots and all my decisions, my life choices, for good and often for ill, are locked into the tapestry of my grievous personality.