“Deep inside the soul of my eye, there is a tiny spider. She weaves strands of concentrated starlight. Of concentrated moonlight. Her webs cross time, more than space, tracing intricate constellations of intimacies amongst diverse moments, beings, situations, and possibilities. What she captures is not insects. It is insight. And then, as if somehow they were extensions of her legs in the domain of human awareness and concern, she moves my fingers so as to carry forth her prize and send it far on other webs.”

— an anonymous informant