And yes, they find discarded husks of locusts in the tall slick grass. And yes, flies of all sizes make of themselves offerings on the altar in the downstairs room. This place, a cell of silence, flame, and smoke. Clinging to the fabric, tiny eyes separate from once alive bodies. The wall, a larval manifestation of disproportionate fears. Not yet a world. And yes, we wonder at the curtain of ants. They draw and quarter themselves to achieve this intricate connection. They hold each to each with leg and claw and clasp and jaw. They are, as they should be, busy at their work, while you wake, at midday, to find that there is still the thing we call outside. And yes, you turn, dream, spill the teeth from your mouth, wake again, peel the wallpaper, list the plans you pledge to keep. And yes, your promises are longstanding legends, like all the spiders you swallow in your sleep.