That's me, younger in the twenties, captured in felt.
Aaaah, wool.
Hand-crafted wool. That pungent smell, let me indulge in the aroma. With all the cleaning and then making the wool together with its rough textures, cleaning the bacteria and the smell that'd overwhelm the room.
It's not dirt, it's a good dirt, one that can bring me back to the blue room at a table with placing dies with the John Ruskin, imagine smelling freshly cut glass and turn infuse that with pressed cotton, let the pungency fill your nostrils. Asmr
Asmr, were the worries of statecraft in the twenties, playing with it when it was so wet, then a rinse of the hands with soap as our industrial society. 2010s and there it was again.
Wet'n mush, was the feeling left of the fibres off the fingers.
(Oh yeah, auto-dubbing, text-to-speech from the 1980's) Welp, it's good enough.