Discordant

He sought to find a new pattern. The basic weave was getting tiresome. As much as he tried to find a variation on it, it kept going back to a monotonous drone. He couldn't see what other people saw in it, but perhaps their own pattern was more sympathetic to the Purpose.

For him it seemed somehow clouding and deflating. It would sing on and on, speaking of it's own richness in a way that only caused a flat and dull echo inside of him. He couldn't play the lines himself – and perhaps that was the problem. He was out of step with the march and only saw other people walking in circles.

The fabric wouldn't give and it was ill fitting. It was an odd shaped tunic that he could barely get over his arms. He couldn't accomplish anything in that straight-jacket, and the lack of movement was getting infuriating.

The music swelled and seemed to be determined to play forward to it conclusion, but it only reversed back to it's opening bars. He was eager to play the next page, but no-one had bothered to look at it.

A picture was refusing to come into focus. The details seemed deliberately blurred, and fuzziness was making his mind grasp at straws. Everyone else marvelled at the colour and richness of the tapestry, but he saw only the frayed edges, the jarring shift in pattern.

He ran the program again. It came to the same conclusion and took the same amount of time. There was no further code to trim or optimize. He couldn't understand how the others kept busy. Unless their lines disintegrated as they were being used, they should be finished by now.