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11/22/2009 3:39:46 PM
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A tiny speck makes it's way from a corner on the wall. eight tiny legs whisper along strong, albeit small. Tensile strength jets along a thought thin thread of web - a brush of breeze the slap of rubber and now the spider's dead. How like our own life it was last minute of Spider's days, Short, unfinished, unproclaimed, and ended in a blaze. gazing now at the smear I know to be Spider's gooey vitals, I ponder how would it feel, at the mercy of someone's sandals? Adam Zank
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