The spiders in your head aren’t doing their job. They’ve eaten each others’ legs and have left you with a skull full of spider bodies that rattles when you shake it. My spiders still have their legs but are too busy constructing webs with them to do much else.
Neither of us move.
At least not forward.
You are mostly just pushed around in circles in your chair, and I mostly just spin in circles in my chair and watch the bird on my wall.
It doesn’t have a body, head, or legs, so its wings pull against nothing as it struggles towards me.
I pick it up.
I throw the bird against the wall to see if it will grow legs and walk. I throw my chair against the wall to see if it will sprout wings and fly. I throw my head against the wall to see if I can make the spiders crawl out of my ears and carry my head back to me.
I think that would be interesting.
Instead, the three all land on top of each other, stuck together into a single thing that stares at me. A creature with the wooden legs of a chair, the feathers of a magpie, and the head of my head.
I stare at my head, then back at you, and hope that my eyes don’t look as dead as yours.