Status: Waiting: I tried listening but wasn't allowed.
To: VW
From: DS
Subject: A powder called regolith
I feed them flies. Upside down biding as I write the wind-torn petals of a rose. What could be extended, consumed or exhumed, as desired. Up for air and a lungful of hot shards, the worst day. Like rooting for the Nazi in a horror film.
Silk spun from an abdomen, crosshairs for craving, catching prey, two feelers and eight simple eyes—what spin.
There are 800 in my house and most of them prefer lurking. To feed off one's own and regenerate legs. Six hours at a time catching flies, I hanker. The role
of entomology to divide and
cut, a benevolent display of torture, really. A ladder you stepped off the morning following. To catch a girl falling, resurfaced warmer, wider this time in a desert or
an incubator, a powder called regolith. Perhaps
heat and space are interchangeable.