Peeking up through a corner of the covers that become my web. There's been a face out there in the red dark, its eyes seeking mine then closing. I'm too afraid to meet its eyes, I cover mine again and again.

Peeking up through a valley in the snow, I'm too cold to see the face now.

I've dried up like bark on a dead tree, loose and flaking. The bugs hide underneath me. who told you who told
           who told who told
            who told

The webs are heavy that cover me, and tangled with drifts of dead leaves. Years ago I spun this castle and imagined its fresh casting for years. Something inside though fell down when the outside refused to move, as the web and myself became tired, lazy, and buried in blankets, peeking out.

The face was later, at first on the edge so I thought it was an imagining brought about by the boredom of the changeless surround. As it creeped closer I could no longer blame it on myself. There's something hungry in those eyes, when I'm too slow to hide from them; something hungry that cannot come from inside me. There is no hunger inside me, just a drift, loose and flaking. The bugs hide beneath me.

Some bugs will eat my blankets; some bugs will eat my web. I move in shallow twists, pretending fierceness. This has kept them from approaching too closely so far. Each day though I've less strength in the nervemuscles of the joints. My skeleton weighs heavier.

The face is the face of a man, the face of a hungry dog