You never know what’s going to happen out there at the market. It’s okay if the search is fruitless. You still get the people and the rummaging and the uncertainty. These bales hold kilos and kilos of remnants and discarded fabric. Just a peek at the insane amount of waste from an insanely wasteful industry.
And in all that waste, there’s gold (well, silk) waiting for me to pluck it out and travel home thinking about where it came from and how it got there in that bale and dreaming of how gorgeous it’ll look on someone and how great it is that it gets another run and that it’s so brilliant that it’s not rubbish at all. It’s gets to be someone’s version of the beautiful thing it was supposed to be.