Funeral home viewing room: September

I swept my house and found another. In every corner was another smaller corner, which the dust mask of perception had clouded out. The table turned into a mirror.

The windows of my senses are open and in comes the voice of the stones that make the current sound barefoot. My existence manifests itself, and boiling water today while naked was the best thing that could have happened. Then the sound of a motor colors the horizon and I remember that I’m not so far from the noxious empire and its [de]capitalist industry.

For a few months now I’ve been keeping my eye on a silk structure built in a corner. I’ve looked in every nook and cranny, but I still haven’t had the pleasure of meeting its maker. The day before yesterday I dreamt she was driving her chelicerae into my crotch, instantly paralyzing my heart. With-out pulse or fear, and with the spider still hanging from my thigh—just as you predicted—I got out from under my sheets to wander around a city in ruins, where there were no houses or buildings, just the remnants of avenues and intact billboards announcing all sorts of products. Just when I noticed I was wearing onesie pajamas, I woke up.

Spiders that eat their own silk as a food substitute because it has a prote(i/a)nbase. Tissue engineers study spiderwebs in search of regenerative solutions. Humanity spares nothing to empower its stint, and I think it would level everything in its path to make it last a little longer. I write you out of a  fear of lasting, caught in the edible silk woven by the gears. I’m fighting back. I beat my wings and buzz in desperation: more webbing suffocates me, more of it entraps me. But staying still isn’t an option, either. How can I remain at war without losing my tenderness?

Don’t think I can’t hear you snoring from here.