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

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