A blank page staring you in the face isn't exactly the most subtle reminder of the roadblock in your brain. The first brush strokes of any piece of writing eat up nearly as much time as the rest of the effort. Which is funny, because by the end of this page, I'll just be getting started.

There's a spider out back who I've taken a liking to. He lives on the porch, near the light of the ceiling – prime real estate for an insect who depends upon lesser creatures who through no fault of their own mistake the light of the porch for the light of the moon. I can't imagine he ventures too far from his perch at a joint in the ceiling. He diligently completes an elaborate architectural structure each and every day, a daily accomplishment in engineering which would put the planners of the Pyramids to shame. And like the towering wonders of Giza and the Nile Delta, the spider's web is built to hold the dead.

As soon as I turn on the light and step out on the porch, bugs of all kinds crawl out of the proverbial and literal woodwork to see what all the fuss is about. Insects are drawn to our lights because, not unlike humans for many thousands of years, they rely on the moon to orient their navigation through the night air.