he is flowing, endlessly in motion, high and then low, left and then right. a devastating storm of opposing forces. it is how he feels, many a day: the suffocating heat and the bitter cold, the sunny afternoon and the downpour, the warm ember of love and the quiet precision of rage. the spider in him illuminates his senses, and he dodges the incoming strike. swiftness without flourish is followed by a counterattack, an unforgiving uppercut that sends the criminal flying through the street and crashing into a market stall full of baked goods. by the end of the skirmish, the goon’s clothing is covered in icing and powdered sugar. ❝ sorry! ❞ he calls out to the small business owner who had spent the morning preparing for a day of sales. ❝ i'm going to buy everything, ma'am, don't you worry. ❞ head turns to his companion, the arrow that always hits its mark. ❝ i hope that clown sees my face in every cinnamon bun for the rest of his life. ❞