Spiders spun his swaddling clothes. Soft as his own downy cheek, stronger than girders. The stuff of dreams and heroes, the uncolor of a sunless winter’s sky.

They stay near him in their adoration as he grows. His eyes like theirs are weak, so weak, but he is patient, he is sensitive. He favors muted colors, browns and soft grays, gentle reds like fallen leaves. He is liked by adults, ignored by his peers.

How clever his hands! With words and abstract symbols his web expands. Among the cobblestones and fashionable lofts of the old city he waits for some keenly felt vibration, then off he goes, the thousand thousand feet of his retainers silent in their marching. Out he goes in his gravity, hungry and unhurried. His the power, his the responsibility.