From Stephen King

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.

Spiders glide.

 

Chop off the legs, let them float too, and you’re left

Right with a hairy body,

Bodies that just, towards you,

glide.

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

glide.

 

Let me tell you what I’ve been thinking now. I’m thinking that I’m really close to you now.

Been thinking

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.

 

I glide.

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