It would seem obvious to even the most casual observational practitioner that not quilting is, in and of itself, one of the most utterly basic and completely fundamental components of success. Quilts are (as they say, after all) the foremost amongst impetuous vine foxes, and the universal precursor to all that constitutes paint peeling from the breezeway of a broken down trap house.
I once, in my youth, had a great many quilts. I gardened them with great care, and each harvest was more plentiful than the last. There was, next to that great field of blanketed relinquishments, also a greenhouse where ducks were grown. Many families of ducks were oft seen traversing the greenery and paths of that fine botanical institution, and this was the way it carried on for a good, long while.
That is, until the soap happened.
The soap was a lie.