Blank Doll bows down and prays.

I haven't blogged in a while. Most of my work is completed with History S and Econs S left. I was going to write something short here but I can't seem to remember.

Sometimes, I think it's just as well that I forget most of my thoughts so I can't put it here for people to read. It's just as well that only my friends that stay with me hear what I feel. All right, maybe not all friends. People can be cowardly, bitter, vainglorious and a thousand other things. But to have a single friend to whom I may whisper all my transient thoughts, to whom I may present a matrix of my mind, that is what I think would be nice.

This is a story of a web. It is a short tale, will be a short tale because webs never last. The story begins at the wakening of the spinner's eye where the web too begins. A first thread travelled eastwards towards the cradle of the Sun. There it bore with it Summer's cup brimming as it were with ichor gold and the dew of night.

The web spirals out, whence from the east it wound its way across mountain trails, across the spines and bellies of fossiled dragons, wending through the slippery maws of serpent streams and cresting upon the earliest dreams of men. So did the web cover the face of the land, this first engine of creation, on the first day of the spinner's awakening.

The spinner searches for this is a story of webs. He casts it far from his bosom, clutching one end with his fingers though the threads are so fine they slip through them only to be caught by the ends of his lashes, his brows, the sting of salt on his face, his nightmares and daydreams, his milky eyes turned brown, his mangled hair and a strange hollowness at his core.

The web catches things for this is what stories do well. Pieces of children's sleep, embraces of youths fragmented, yet none of what he seeks for. The spinner waits, he hums and the web grows for music is but another thread.

His tears turn to silk, wefting across the ragged edge of ropes. His laughter is as light, lifting the web into the sky.

This is a tale that ends though. The spinner grows old, he watches the Sun pass him by. The salt stings his face no more, his eyes are milky again. Then it happens.

The web hums.

He gathers it back, strand by strand he draws back the scattered cloak of his soul. The spinner spies something enmeshed within the silver nets (borne from his fears of age, tempered by resignation and the monotony of a metronome Sun). He pulls once, twice, once more.

The spinner sighs. The web breaks, no longer taut for the threads form pools of coiled sunshine. The spinner releases one last breath, the final thread, though he clutches the final gift of the web to his chest.

The spinner found his heart, perfect and whole.

C'est tout.