Dufresne, you better be sick or dead in there, I shit you not.
I’ve been thinking about spiders, spiders don’t scuttle, they don’t.
Clouds scuttle, clouds crawl, across the sky, then the walls.
Chop off the legs, let them float too, and you’re left
Right with a hairy body,
Bodies that just, towards you,
Blind the eight eyes from your eye
The Eight, that’s It, Jack, Man in Black
Crimson King, not Stephen, Annie Wilkes, Wilkes I said, and Nyarlathotep,
Wild Bill, and
You’re left with the body of the spider
That sings across the void
And lights toward you, it actually, watch it actually, across the floor, watch it
Let me tell you what I’ve been thinking now. I’m thinking that I’m really close to you now.
Turtle watches, children orgy, lives scream
From the iron pages of the novel prison, prison novel we’ve made.
Readers don’t read. You sit. floater.
I don’t write.