three sisters

And so life goes on.
Masses of people went on with their own miserable lives, never caring or looking back. Not even away are that their lives hang by the thinnest of threads, held in fates' gnarled hands.

He finds himself a seat on an elaborately carved tombstone, the rising sun casting away all shadows and seemingly to cause the tombstones to give off their own ethereal glow. He begins to talk, perhaps to the spirits that surround us, or perhaps to the fates themselves. A calm peace seems to settle over the area.
"How many would miss me if I were to leave?"
He toys with that thought, counting out the few friends and family he has. Six in total, no, two. His two older cousins hate him, as do their parents. The only relative that doesn't hate him is his newborn cousin, but he's sure that child will learn to hate him, as her siblings and parents do already. He has one friend, not even, more an acquaintance that he has drinks with.
"Hmm, so really none."
He pulls out a dagger, small but intricately carved with the simple design of scissors and thread.
"This makes it so much easier."
He turns the dagger over in his hands, slender fingers tracing over the design, following the multiple threads until it reached the only scissors on the blade. He thinks for a moment.
"All choices one makes will ultimately to the same fate that everyone else will follow. It doesn't matter what path one chooses really, they'll all end up with the same result."
He holds the dagger up to the light of the sun overhead, studying with his eyes squinted. He flips the dagger around and around, the light reflecting off the silver blade and onto his face, seemingly to rejuvenate his features, causing the premature wrinkles to disappear and reappear once the light left. He turns the dagger, pointing the tip towards himself.
"O' sweet dagger of mine."
He points the dagger at his heart.
"Pierce hard and pierce true."
He lowers the dagger, chuckling softly, studying it again.
"How sweet you are, always by my side. Never failing, never fading. Oh what would I do without you."
He brings the blade up to his face, running the flat side against his cheek, caressing-like, almost cooing to the weapon. Lifting his other hand up to the blade, he starts petting it and pressing it into his cheek. A line of blood drips down the side of his face, the source from where the dagger digs in too deep. He smiles and removes the blade from his face and in turn he balances the tip on his index finger, the tip piercing through the skin and a drop of blood welling up around the dagger's tip. He feels neither the pain in his cheek or in his finger, instead only occupied with keeping the dagger upright and balanced.
The dagger falls.
He looks up, seeing the sun start to set. He climbs off the tombstone and picking up his dagger, he makes his way out of the cemetery.
As the sun drove away the shadows and created a beautiful calm that morning, now the night returns, as does the shadows, once again casting a haunting over the area. Tendrils of mists slowly creep in, obscuring any trace of that morning's celestial calm, replacing it with an eerie stillness found only in graveyards of the recently deceased.

Three sisters sit in a room, one spins the thread from her spindle, the next measures what has been spun and the third snips the thread at her liking.
One thread is let loose from the others, the rest hanging from the third sister's shears.