For a friend who like spiders.

The dim and dying daylight stalks toward its death, crawling in silent certainty, trapped at every turn by the evening webs of twilight.

Her screams have no voice, for the light needs none, for light is life itself, but not immune from the black and venomous strike of night. She will surely succumb again to the dour gloom, like a spirit condemned to roam among the creeping things that take her with relentless and unmerciful assurance, repeatedly.

Panicked now, she struggles and clings to the brick walls that held her warmly through the sun’s time, but now she trembles as the shadows fade, dying like the late summer breeze. The web holds, made of stronger stuff than the intangible light.

In the next moment, she’s gone, no longer alive but no longer afraid, dead and waiting for the earth’s slow turn.