The Hobbyist by Jeanne Vomit-Terror

The Hobbyist indulges their craft not for remuneration,
nor recognition,
nor necessarily even mastery,
but for indulgence’s sake.

With each stitch,
each knot,
each snap,
each note,
each stroke,
the Hobbyist converts pleasure into tangible objects,
little gravity wells that imperceptibly bend space
to reproduce another resource indispensable to the Hobbyist:
time.

And with the invention of time came the invention of death,
so pleasure is the poison by which the Universe ensures its own end,
the Hobbyist an unwitting conduit.