If a spider could speak, its sentences would be silk and vibration-and you would need new ears. I wait on threads. Wind, footfall, a breath across a leaf: each tremor names something. My eight eyes reduce the world to shadow and motion; my leg hairs and slit sensilla translate gravity and breath into decisions. I do not weave webs for beauty. I build instruments that listen, records that remember, traps that teach me what to trust. This book speaks from that listening. Short, sharp chapters move from waiting to sensing to thinking: how silk becomes an external mind, how plucked threads hold memory, how deception and chance shape every choice. It's naturalist observation folded into blunt philosophy-close, immediate, without moralizing. Read it if you want to feel what it is to know by tremor and to survive by tuned silence.
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