Ten thousand chrysalises, stacked in rows like doughnuts.
If you didn't know they were stuffed with gutsy arachnids
with ten-metre leaps and a bite radius that'd take your snout off,
you might find yourself inclined towards broodiness.
In the darkness, they rustle. You can almost hear them dreaming:
the red eyes thudding open, blinking away mucus
before they gaze upon the new world; the hunger;
the rich, ripe stink of a meat orchard, waiting.
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