I was sewing a four-hole button with a steel needle and ten fingers. It was a morning when the sun whimsically decided to paint the sky a blue that did not exist in any known color palette. The fingers, however, were not mine. They were ten independent entities, each with its own personality and agenda. Their hands were curious; each finger had ten small, flexible fingers, perfect for sewing. It grabbed a steel needle with ten pointed star-shaped needles and began to sew the buttons onto the shirt. The needle spun in circles, and the tips pierced the fabric of the shirt, creating triangles.

The first finger, the index, refused to participate, arguing that sewing was too bourgeois an act for its revolutionary spirit. The thumb, on the other hand, had become a philosopher, questioning the very existence of the button: "What is the use of sewing something that already has holes?" it asked, while spinning in circles around itself.

The heart and ring fingers, meanwhile, had fallen in love with the shine of the steel needle. They danced around it, creating a small whirlwind of love and bewilderment while attempting, unsuccessfully, to thread the string through the eye of the needle. The pinky, the smallest and cleverest, had decided it would be the conductor of this symphony of fingers, but its voice was so high-pitched that only the neighborhood cats could hear it.

The needle, with its steel tip, was forced to navigate through this chaos of disparate wills. Every time it tried to pierce one of the button's holes, the button itself transformed; sometimes it became a blinking eye, at other times, a mouth that laughed, and on occasion, it simply disappeared, only to reappear on the other side of the room.

The thread, for its part, had grown tired of being a thread. It longed to be a brightly colored snake and, in an act of rebellion, unraveled from its spool to slither across the floor, leaving behind a trail of rainbows and murmurs.

And so, in this surreal dance of fingers, needles, and buttons, the task of sewing became a never-ending spectacle, with no beginning, no end, and no purpose. The ten fingers, the steel needle, and the four-hole button got lost in a labyrinth of possibilities, where the absurd was the only reality.

For Children with Imagination

In a room where the walls were mirrors of liquid water, an old man named Eugenio sat at the edge of a chair made of clouds. His gaze traveled through the holes of time, and although he seemed the same every day, his shadow played with crystal butterflies fluttering around.

In front of him, a four-hole button danced on the table, a small icon of everyday life that could not be ignored. However, it was not just any button; this button was the last remnant of a jacket that belonged to a fish that dreamed of being human. Eugenio, with his steel needle, a symbol of a forgotten era, set out to sew it.

He had ten fingers, each with a story to tell. One had caressed the first cloud, another had escaped from a concert of dreams, and a third had been responsible for writing letters to the stars. As he began his task, an hourglass turned into a fish that swam joyfully in his mind, savoring each grain of time.

With the first prick of the needle, Eugenio felt the ground crack beneath him, revealing a garden of melted clocks and flowers that sang in forgotten languages. The holes of the button, like portals to other worlds, began to shine brightly. Each stitch not only joined the fabric but also intertwined different realities.

As the thread slipped, ten fingers began to weave absurd tales. With the second hole, a world of cows flying over mountains of spaghetti materialized, their bells ringing like the laughter of children. With the third, Eugenio heard a chorus of shoes dancing sultry in the desert of a black-and-white film set. And with the fourth, a rain of mint candies began to fall gently, turning the ground into a caramelized sea of refreshing madness.

Eugenio let out a deep laugh, one that echoed in the hearts of those who had once lost their way. The steel needle, trembling with excitement, transformed into a giant pencil that began to draw the story of a parrot that became a philosopher after learning to speak with the wind.

And so, sewing the four-hole button, Eugenio not only joined a piece of fabric but also intertwined dreams, memories, and madness into a surreal tapestry that encompassed the very essence of existence. When he finished his work, he realized that at the bottom of the button lay a small world that had come to life. Happy, he put on his paper hat and stepped out into the garden, where a path of letters awaited him, ready to take him to lands never before dreamed of.

In that room of water mirrors, Eugenio had not merely sewn a button; he had woven a universe of absurdities, where madness and reason embraced in an endless waltz.

By Carlos del Puente