i_love_roosters
Matthew 9:7
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Once upon a time, in a small and forgettable village named Dullington, there lived a man named Harold, who was known far and wide (within the village of Dullington, at least) for his extraordinary collection of button lint. Harold was not a man of many talents, nor was he particularly remarkable in any way, but he had a passion for collecting lint that gathered in the crevices of buttons. It was a hobby he took very seriously, to the point where every morning, he would inspect every button on every piece of clothing he owned, searching meticulously for lint.
Harold's collection of button lint was stored in a series of old jars, which he kept on a dusty shelf in his small, dimly lit living room. Each jar was labeled with the date and time the lint was found, as well as the type of button it came from. There was lint from shirt buttons, coat buttons, and even the occasional trouser button. Harold often mused that the lint from different types of buttons had subtle differences in texture and color, though no one else in the village seemed to notice.
The villagers of Dullington, though generally kind and well-meaning, did not share Harold's enthusiasm for button lint. Whenever Harold tried to strike up a conversation about his collection, he was met with polite nods and hurried excuses to be elsewhere. But Harold didn’t mind; he had his lint, and that was enough for him.
One day, Harold decided to organize his collection. It was a Tuesday—an unremarkable day, like most days in Dullington—and Harold woke up with a strong urge to sort through his lint. He sat down at his small, wooden table, took out his jars, and began to separate the lint by color. There were the grays, which came from his winter coat; the whites, which he assumed were from his dress shirts; and the browns, which could have come from any number of sources, as he often wore earthy tones.
As Harold sorted the lint, he realized that some of it had been misfiled. He found a piece of white lint in the jar labeled "Gray Lint, March 12th, 2023." This discovery was unsettling for Harold. How could he have made such a mistake? He spent the next several hours painstakingly rechecking each jar, ensuring that every piece of lint was in its rightful place.
While Harold was engrossed in his sorting, a gentle breeze blew through the open window, carrying with it a single dandelion seed. The seed floated lazily across the room and landed in the middle of Harold's carefully sorted piles of lint. Harold stared at the seed for a long time. It was not lint, and it did not belong in his collection. He pondered what to do with it. Should he throw it out? Should he add it to his collection as a "miscellaneous item"? The decision weighed heavily on him.
After much deliberation, Harold decided to place the dandelion seed in a small, empty jar that he labeled "Unknown Origin, August 17th, 2024." He placed the jar on the shelf, next to his lint collection, and sat back, feeling a sense of satisfaction that the matter had been resolved.
Days turned into weeks, and Harold continued his routine of lint collecting and sorting. Occasionally, he would glance at the jar with the dandelion seed, wondering if he had made the right decision. But life in Dullington went on as usual, with nothing much happening, except for the occasional misfiled lint or stray seed.
One particularly cloudy afternoon, Harold decided to catalog his collection in a notebook. He thought it would be helpful to have a written record of every piece of lint he had ever collected. He began by listing the contents of each jar, describing the color, texture, and possible origin of each piece of lint. It was a slow and tedious process, but Harold found it immensely satisfying.
As the days passed, Harold's notebook grew thicker with descriptions of lint. He began to imagine that one day, someone might find his catalog and appreciate the meticulous effort he had put into documenting his collection. Perhaps they would even add to it, continuing the legacy of button lint collecting.
But no one in Dullington ever found the notebook, nor did they express any interest in Harold's collection. The village remained as it always had been: quiet, uneventful, and blissfully unaware of the intricacies of button lint.
And so, Harold lived out the rest of his days, content with his collection and his notebook. When he passed away, his house was cleared out by a distant relative who had never heard of button lint or dandelion seeds. The jars were thrown away, the notebook was discarded, and life in Dullington continued, as uneventful and monotonous as ever.
The end.
Harold's collection of button lint was stored in a series of old jars, which he kept on a dusty shelf in his small, dimly lit living room. Each jar was labeled with the date and time the lint was found, as well as the type of button it came from. There was lint from shirt buttons, coat buttons, and even the occasional trouser button. Harold often mused that the lint from different types of buttons had subtle differences in texture and color, though no one else in the village seemed to notice.
The villagers of Dullington, though generally kind and well-meaning, did not share Harold's enthusiasm for button lint. Whenever Harold tried to strike up a conversation about his collection, he was met with polite nods and hurried excuses to be elsewhere. But Harold didn’t mind; he had his lint, and that was enough for him.
One day, Harold decided to organize his collection. It was a Tuesday—an unremarkable day, like most days in Dullington—and Harold woke up with a strong urge to sort through his lint. He sat down at his small, wooden table, took out his jars, and began to separate the lint by color. There were the grays, which came from his winter coat; the whites, which he assumed were from his dress shirts; and the browns, which could have come from any number of sources, as he often wore earthy tones.
As Harold sorted the lint, he realized that some of it had been misfiled. He found a piece of white lint in the jar labeled "Gray Lint, March 12th, 2023." This discovery was unsettling for Harold. How could he have made such a mistake? He spent the next several hours painstakingly rechecking each jar, ensuring that every piece of lint was in its rightful place.
While Harold was engrossed in his sorting, a gentle breeze blew through the open window, carrying with it a single dandelion seed. The seed floated lazily across the room and landed in the middle of Harold's carefully sorted piles of lint. Harold stared at the seed for a long time. It was not lint, and it did not belong in his collection. He pondered what to do with it. Should he throw it out? Should he add it to his collection as a "miscellaneous item"? The decision weighed heavily on him.
After much deliberation, Harold decided to place the dandelion seed in a small, empty jar that he labeled "Unknown Origin, August 17th, 2024." He placed the jar on the shelf, next to his lint collection, and sat back, feeling a sense of satisfaction that the matter had been resolved.
Days turned into weeks, and Harold continued his routine of lint collecting and sorting. Occasionally, he would glance at the jar with the dandelion seed, wondering if he had made the right decision. But life in Dullington went on as usual, with nothing much happening, except for the occasional misfiled lint or stray seed.
One particularly cloudy afternoon, Harold decided to catalog his collection in a notebook. He thought it would be helpful to have a written record of every piece of lint he had ever collected. He began by listing the contents of each jar, describing the color, texture, and possible origin of each piece of lint. It was a slow and tedious process, but Harold found it immensely satisfying.
As the days passed, Harold's notebook grew thicker with descriptions of lint. He began to imagine that one day, someone might find his catalog and appreciate the meticulous effort he had put into documenting his collection. Perhaps they would even add to it, continuing the legacy of button lint collecting.
But no one in Dullington ever found the notebook, nor did they express any interest in Harold's collection. The village remained as it always had been: quiet, uneventful, and blissfully unaware of the intricacies of button lint.
And so, Harold lived out the rest of his days, content with his collection and his notebook. When he passed away, his house was cleared out by a distant relative who had never heard of button lint or dandelion seeds. The jars were thrown away, the notebook was discarded, and life in Dullington continued, as uneventful and monotonous as ever.
The end.
