Arachnophobia in A sharp minor

Web brushes the hairs on my ear, I brush it. No spider; pulse quickened with magnetic potentiality. The hairs on my ear stand with the brushing of static life. We prefer portraiture, I think. It doesn't crawl beneath like leaves' shadows in wind. Little cold poisonous moments, skin rises, then falls. A species of terrified hammers striking forks: attack, sustain, decay.