I thought I'd avoid the mess by placing the incense near the ceiling, but all I did was make the spiders more fragrant. the ashes, well, where they landed remains a mystery. and these days, it seems, I am amused by nothing.
and nothing is amused by me.
somewhere amidst this secret mathematic there's a queer code hidden within the folds of a feverdream. its mystic twists holding shame in coils of psychological fealty. "count the hours. count the minutes." serfing the tide, so to speak.
and so the tide speaks of the serf.
the only true success in this scenario belongs to the spiders that bite you in your sleep, and then crawl away unscathed. you're left with nothing but itchy red bumps and confusion. awakening to a lost battle of their design.
and so the design is lost to their awakening.
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