Irrational tarantulas of steel squeeze under the door, isolated by
an obsession with coming on, coming right in. There we go, holist.
Theory-and-forth..
Theory is the tickle place you and I may detect the language driver, a feeling you’ve won, untidy and young, accomplished and loathed despite a foundational rule of no feeling without permission.

Our tarantulas grow mute subconsciously, in dim light over and over —
burbling with a kill-agenda that’s swayed into decisions, aching to blather.