“What starved and diseased thoughts could possess a mad spider; tiny, red things hobbling on absurdly crooked crutches across the black spongy floor of the minute mind? Hobbling toward a mote of a glow, the cracked diamond in the heart of a fleck sized brain, to worship there or to warms their claws before its crystalline blaze? Overhead, jagged fissures through which light fell from each eye, light filtered by the webs within the stalks which held the eyes?”
Lord Tyger, Philip Jose Farmer
