Tarantulas of steel squeeze under the door, isolated by
an obsession with coming right in. There we go, holist.
Theory-and-forth..
Theory is the place you and I may detect the language driver, untidy and young, loathed despite a foundational rule of no counterpoint speaking up without permission.

Our tarantulas grow mute in dim light over and over —
burbling with a kill-agenda tickled into decisions, aching to blather.