Come closer. Should you wish to that is; believe me, I empathize with your apprehension. By now I would guarder such hope; as one stepping further into the web that surrounds this deathbed. Perhaps that makes a spider out of me. With patience shall I wait for any and all whom hunger in the pangs of their own curiosities as one draws ever near. Those that will tug away the webbing cob of my fading lair must heed this final warning. What one may find down a set of stairs, through a door and then some more may startle and surprise you. I may yet breathe, palpitate still with the ebb of life. Think less of this than the latter for if I have gone, know that I: your drooling host have become the scent of the air, the scatter of amassed earthen wares. The venom of my soul tips the edge of each and everything that I have never owned. As I render this tome know that my face is pressed flush to the in-perceivable glass, the lens that parts the hallowed derision between this life and the next. Do not blink, my guest, for this is a staring contest.