The room was full of staring eyes, flickering screens spread through the world, and here one could see all one wished, every detail of life surveyed.
The Hero: But all you can do is watch. You sit behind the million monitors, ever-watchful, a spider in the dark. I know your silence. The hunter waits. I will stop you.
He bravely shouts his lines, a madman on the street corner. The eyes see so far, so much, and he’s but a blip, a moment amid a million moments all happening at once, all passing through time instantly, replaced immediately by the present. The present, suffocating: Countless wars and deaths, and mothers baking bread, and children skinning knees. It’s all too much, this world.
The Spider: What tingles on my web tonight? On what may I be fed?
In that room you sit, the uncounted eyes staring out into the world, your web. Every movement, every life, is known by you, and hated.
. . . and in that room the staring eyes still stare at you.