The spider dances. The spider screams. The spider cries with love because it knows the life that it will never have.
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Sounds like a WTNV bit.
And now, traffic.
A person types a report. It looks nearly identical to a report they typed up the day before. The screams are in slightly different places, and the moans of misery slightly longer, but the content is mostly the same. They hit send; the wind wails in response.
They get into their car, and drive home. The message follows them. If you look out your window, you can see it right now. If you strain your ears, even hear it.
This has been traffic.
