You said your life was boring so I have just released your address to every spider I know

You have time still, to escape with your essentials. I only know one spider. It will crawl to you slowly, as a million-dollar snail might. He has made an apartment where the ceiling and wall meld like oceans. His place is lousy with cross-hatched whites, with a fine sheer finish that glows in the sunlight. At present, he is resting in a sunbeam atop your W-2 that was mailed to me on accident. He moves his wire-thin legs across your typeset name, as if trying to learn every serifed edge of you. I have named him Richard, for his lion heart. The sun is setting, and he races the shadows up the wall. He will come to you well rested, eager. I told him how the mosquitoes love you, and there is a hunger in his eyes. Pack lightly, my dear, move swiftly—you said your life was boring so, I have just released your address to every spider I know.