I experience anxiety. Rather frequently. Much more frequently than I like. Much, much more frequently than I think anyone would ever guess. It sucks. It feels like my subconscious is questioning every last damn thing I’ve ever done, am doing, and ever will do. All at once. All the time. And there’s nothing I can do about it.
I watch the spiders running up and down my walls. Their legs seeming the perfection of organic machination. Their exoskeletons and compound eyes, marvels of engineering. The sheer, pure purpose of their existence – to rid the world of *insects*.
Stories have entered general circulation, concerning one of the things that goes bump in the night. Well, less a story, perhaps, than a description at this point, and a theory or two. Too little is actually known for it to be a story, as yet. Which is to say, when faced with a collection of facts, the average human wants very much to assign action and motivation, to create a story, to get a grip. But that act of creation does not make a truth. And we here want to discover the truth behind these things that go bump in the night.