She plucks at the spiderweb with carefully practiced casualness. Her fingers tipped with sugarcane sacrosanctity. Lyrics drip from her mouth as stringy droplets from a honey wand. Lowered slowly and without rhythm, and smeared across a blank white box in one hundred and eighty characters or less.
The arachnid is neither amused nor perplexed. Hollow words vibrate the same as hollow insects and hollow detritus. It waits to snare fleshier rewards with silence and stillness, and a digit idly across the back arrow.

2:32 p.m. - 2016-02-14