In 1992, in a hill town somewhere between Siena and the sea, a fabric merchant's son was born into bolts of wool and linen stacked to the rafters of his father's shop.

He grew up around the loom and among the threads.

Every early memory smells of dye and dust: the till bell, the tape measure looped round his father's neck like a stole, the old hands of the two villages who still worked the looms by hand, men who spoke of the war as though it were last Tuesday. His father wanted him to go into the trade — the weight of good cloth in the hand, the difference between a warp thread and a lie.

He never learned it, not properly. Something in him wanted to cause chaos against the order — the rhythm of the looms, the colours and pattern he loved, but something about it felt distorted. The night was full of mystery; the precise order of the day, clockwork-exact, felt fascist. By seventeen he was gone most weekends to warehouses outside Florence that smelled of diesel and carried no sign on the door, where the light did the talking the boy never could. His father called it a phase. It was not a phase. It was the only church he ever really believed in.

The estrangement, when it came, was quiet, the way these things usually are. No slammed doors — just a slow drift, a shop that closed a little earlier each year, a father who stopped asking and a son who stopped explaining. What passed between them after that was cloth, sent occasionally and without a note, as if fabric were the only language the two of them still shared.

He never got the heritage properly — not the trade, not the family's hundred years of thread — only its weight, which he carried anyway, the way you carry a name you didn't choose. And out on the floor, under lights that changed colour on the beat, he found he couldn't stop thinking in warp and weft. Every strobe was a shuttle pass. Every crowd was a length of cloth, moving as one, waiting to be cut into something that meant something.

By then the clothes on everyone's back were polyester anyway — cheap, quick, everywhere, a hundred thousand identical metres a day pouring out of factories that had made the family trade a museum piece before he was old enough to inherit it. Capitalism, it turns out, has no particular use for craft. It wants throughput. His father's shop wasn't a business failing so much as a whole way of making things being quietly deleted.

So the thread went somewhere else. Not into cloth you could wear, but into cloth you could only see — the loom rebuilt as a screen, the shuttle as a cursor, the sett and the repeat and the colour sequence all still there, still real, only moved into a place where the light itself is the fibre and nothing frays and nothing ever quite runs out.

That's the tapestry of it, such as it is: a village, a shop, a father, a silence, a rave, a thousand small deletions that added up to one stubborn refusal to let the weaving stop. What started as thread became pixel. What started as a trade became an instrument. The heritage he was never quite given, he built again from nothing, in light — because light was the only material that could keep up with the rate of change.

Make it. Move it. Perform it.

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