The spider had soon digested the fly, but all the while it continued to produce its thread.
The man would never stop, some say he could never stop. Nobody knew where he had come from, if there were more like him; tiny people living amongst us.
He carefully pulled on the thread, feeling the warmth of the spider on it as he began threading his needle once more.
Once upon a time the man had been young, his eyes had been there to help him, but aeons had aged him. Everything was done by touch now, soon his fingers would lose their feeling too, then the memories would take over. His hair had already almost disappeared, except of course for his beard, the bushy orange curls a veritable jungle about his face.
With the needle threaded, he started over. Knotting and double-knotting, building up the thread until the sewing proper could recommence. He worked quickly, efficiently, sewing with precision as the form began to take shape.

There once was a little old man and a spider, working together in perfect harmony.
He was a simple person, dressed in well-worn garb, sitting perpetually on a cotton reel. Not that he used it.
The man, perhaps out of routine, brought his work up close to his now-blind eyes as he worked on the details, perfecting lacy wings and spindly legs, he seemed satisfied, so began the final step, wrapping the whole thing in more of the spider's silk, tightly he bound it until it was almost impossible to see what was inside.
Breaking the thread, the man tossed his finished piece up into the air, letting it land on his balding head. The spider, realising what it was, and further that it had seemingly already been killed ate it up without a second thought.

The spider had soon digested the fly, but all the while it continued to produce its thread.