A spider got lost. As it rains, it spun a web around its neck, every time it spoke, the nest grew, overpowering words rest near the drain pipe’s shaft, it’s chaos, not far, a singularity. Water doesn’t touch it, doesn’t destroy it. Apparently lies are immune to fact. Rationality can’t destroy what is already dead. We face a peculiar way to undress our tight reality. Fear of spiders, overblown, knit lies, noise, dusty haze. It’s incomprehensible as long as we evade their woven lies. Once there, fear shifts, once spiders, now it’s rain, no one in sight, awake at night, web intact, but still afraid it might rain, lives destroyed, aware of their bile, it falls apart, but it doesn’t as long as fear appropriates the singularity. Once a teardrop, once a spider, as a tear, we rained over them, as a spider, lies spun into stem cells that transformed into me, you, anyone not immune to be fearful of the chaotic: the draft felt as we lost control over facts. If ever fearful, tempted to rain around their neck, wait. If ever fearful, tempted to spin a web to create a tight reality, wait. If ever tempered red, tempted to drink your bile, wait. If ever tempered indigo, tempted to destroy steam cells, wait. Where patience dwells, chaos doesn’t reign well. Rational thought prevails.