Spiders on the bedroom wall.
Who sees them anymore? Who has the time to notice?
I do.
I watch the tiny arachnids creeping up and down their silken threads. From my tiny corner of the world I watch them.
Each of them has a name; Christian, Jojo, Mordred, Liam, and Abbot, to name a few. They weave their dreams into thin sticky fibers to trap the realities as they pass. Were I only a spider, then I should be content. What devil saw fit to make me man is not my name to know, but if I knew, I would know who to curse at night. I hear him laughing in my dreams sometimes. He plays the fiddle, and I must dance the eight-legged dance with only my two clumsy legs.
Someday, I will spin a sticky web of dreams to catch my daemon, and while he is trapped in my web of dreams and lies, I will command him to make me perfect like the little weavers I love. If he refuses, I will consume his blood and vital organs and leave his husk to dry.
Liam shall be my shining prince, for he weaves the strongest, most symmetrical webs, and catches even the most fearsome of insects in his traps. A spider should pass only the best genes to her offspring. A genuine shame that I'll have to kill him. I do so love to watch him weave, but I'll have only the best for my children.
Look! Mordred brings me a dragonfly all shot full of his digestive acids, but
still struggling against him, fluttering its shimmering wings. This one will
be good.