Temper, temper

In which here be dragons

Ware the Mind, Gentle Traveller. 

Step not upon a neuron lest she feel the ripple in her web. 

She’s been sharpening her blades, testing them on unsuspecting thoughts, dousing the scene with flammables, and dropping matches with cheerful abandon.

Her tolerance gauge is whistling urgently, her wheel is jammed toward destruction, and she’s out of damns. 

No bumbling backtracking, plaintive pleas, or earnest excuses can be heard over her jaunty hum. 

Best you traverse this path another day.

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