i. it's said we weave a web, or that writing seduces my friends by its perfectibility; we work to sharpen this fang against the stone, to fashion escapism into escape, time-loop stories a clean read of our era, windows we climb to from hopes of air, us foolish readers of others en- dangered by our limitless desire for a future outside the mirror-hall we're told bounds subjectivity. ii. one plinth in this bazaar of gall- erists attracts a crowd: it holds a Platonic solid, ideal form from another age -- but this one's eve- ry face reflecting our times with a one-way inwards mirror, so that under our eyes infinity undulates, projecting imperfections until we see fractals twisting out of each telescopic octagonal navel, anxie- ty as inward beauty with such art we might imagine it art's purpose. (google employees got free tickets to this event, where pieces with listed prices were $1-10,000; when last at fort mason I sat quite near this octahedron's spot, lost myself in the dances faces and regalia of a Two-Spirit pow-wow and left beaming and bashful reflecting so much outward beauty) iii. we cannot see the future and yet must catch it. so weave! to this end. we chew our selves with analysis too much to be a tarantula and not fall prey to paralysis, so weave! together and strongly: we'll need a tangled web to find an order better than those we're shown; so help us weave a world better than those we've ever known.