Late november editorial. A complex series of spiderwebs threaded itself almost like its own support structure to encompass the entire square footage of the box-shaped apartment room that I rented over a divorced retired lady’s boarded up house on Carriage Road. If the ceiling ever caved in, the spiders web would catch it, and it would not fall on me as I slept. And though the room below me stood vacant, and had been since the retired lady’s divorce, I would be negligent to have not noticed faint sounds from below on certain evenings. Sounds like shuffling, or the moving of furniture, and pieces of conversation about anniversaries or broken romances. Often while the moonlight fills up the small box-shaped apartment house that I rent, I’ll lay on my back, on the bare wooden floors, staring up at the complex spiderweb that was so full it might catch the whole building safely if the structure in whole ever decided to collapse in its netting. Sometimes I’ll wonder when the spiders will start building downward too, in effect wrapping me up like a blanket. Sometimes I wait silently, listening for sounds from below in the divorced retired lady’s supposedly boarded up and vacant room. - Corpse on pumpkin.