It is a gift. It is a curse. The craft of weaving the select units of communication, words like fresh morning spider webs, sticky to every part that fuels feverish need, bypassing the tests of reason and renders directly to the physio-emotional neanderthal that refuses the muse of civilization. Come hither, saunter slowly as the aroma of allure clouds your mind and lifts your feet, one trailing the other helplessly, without weight or effort. Come hither, feel your ears turn from their lobes that would defy listening to the wordsmith siren whispering in the darkness. Come hither, the words leaking from the tips of his fingers like honey from your own simmering pot, saunter slowly forward with a grace beyond gravity. Isn't my beautiful web glorious. It is the finest in all of France. You may cease your advance at anytime, it's ok, that's up to you. What harm could be rendered by anything so delicately beautiful like helium on a string, lighter than the atoms of thought itself.
What is it, that I would quicken your heart from planets away. What is it, that I might sing a song to your soul without opening my mouth for a million lifetimes. Such is the craft. It is a gift. It is a cuse. Come hither into my most beautiful web and rest for an eternity; til one page is hidden by another turning.
real spider2: http://www.margobors.com/zo_spider3.jpg
(black widow: http://8thwood.com/images/blkwidow.jpg