This is what was written in the large blue notebook:

If there is a needle there is one who threads, and all those rich men fell like coal through a hole in the pavement, screaming for answers. If there is a needle there is one who threads, and I saw him slip a scarlet strand from a prostitute’s window. If there is a needle then there is steel from which it flowed, and there is fire under a mountain, and there is the voice of the damned. If there is a needle there is one who sews. The rags he pierces will cry out and run again and again, all the scarecrow men down dusty streets like wrappers in a breeze, but they will be shaped into gowns and draped across the camel’s back.