Tarantulas of steel squeeze under the trap door, isolated by an obsession coming on to us, coming right in. There we go, holist.  
Theory-and-error-correction deserve your attention..    
Theory is the place we detect problem sets you’ve already gone over. We’re untidy and young, accomplished and loathed despite a foundational rule of no principles without a permit.      
  
The tarantulas are swelling to expire in wrinkled light, over and done —  burbling with their own kill-agenda tickled into indecision, hankering even now to chatter.