Molly Peacock reads
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The best thing about a hand-made pattern is the flaw. Sooner or later in a hand-loomed rug, among the squares and flattened triangles, a little red nub might soar above a blue field, or a purple cross might sneak in between the neat ochre teeth of the border. The flaw we live by, the wrong color floss, now wreathes among the uniform strands and, because it does not match, makes a red bird fly, turning blue field into sky. It is almost, after long silence, a word spoken aloud, a hand saying through the flaw, I’m alive, discovered by your eye.