One night, a lattice of the thinnest of white threads,
like spider silk, but harder than any diamond
grow out, with a mad quickness,
from a dark corner in the room where you sleep.
They cannot be stopped.
They cut through flesh like water.
Branching off at queer angles,
outwards, maybe filling all of space
inwards, ever lessening the space remaining.

You are the first.

From somewhere, faintly,
a silver bell is heard.
Or is it a laugh?