every tiny spider that climbs me because i'm sitting alone on this piece of lawn reminds me of you. not because we had anything beyond a Just Dance game-play but because you left me on wait, for 12 years now, counted, because i still consider the endless possibilities of your ceramic stuff blended with my 3D printing stuff populating this tiny hut disturbed by parrots at day and possums at night. how having the door open allows big spiders to get inside and sometimes snakes. branches break and pine-nuts bombarding the roof. how empty is the space between what the wind blows and what i do. the rustle of leaves the lack of you. how droplets of water at the filter counts the time, sometimes, shrubs open spaces for bigger trees operate dense forests not that far away i hear flirts from birds, wild berries we could try to grow. the way you escaped the research on the effects of tapioca starch as non-stick agent on vegan and gluten-free pancakes with a poorly seasoned iron pan or how clay buckets perforated not with cute and tiny ladybug dots but with holes sizing something like your index and thumb making a circle, and clay lids on each one and subtleties from your manufacture that could be a research act on structures to grow fungi on forests environments but let me brew black-tea and hope insects when they are about to die, go fly or climb one last time and free-fall to cobwebs, so spiders are fed and i can return to dream