They Are Called Arachnoids

The surface of Venus, dark under an impossibly thick cloudscape, nightmarishly hot, and dry as a bone under sulfur clouds and atmospheric pressure so intense the air ripples with every shudder of the air mass upon air mass nowhere for the heat to go. The crust seems solid but it is not, so hot it does not break into continental plates like our Earthly foothold instead the plumes make their way to the surface as vast and horrible bubbles, calderas of molten lava they rise to the surface melting the landscape and cracking it like pudding on a pot, bubble bursting and filling with lava, from space the affair recalls two dimensional spiders in some horrible web.
They tell me that meteors, falling to earth, one it was in Indonesia I think that killed a dog..five billion years in space before that dog existed and it nails the canine on the head with perfect accuracy it could happen to each and every one of us and we should live our lives knowing it. Those meteors have diamonds in them, tiny, and older than the solar system, made as the shockwave of an ancient supernova passed through its upper atmosphere millions of miles distant, debris of which precipitates the collapse of yet another starfield another sun another two dozen one, our own, adrift in the galaxy we shall never know which stars share a common origin with us.
Once again, I contemplate every lifeless globe out there unsung and beautiful never-to-be-observed and long for some dimension x, solids of which have already been described floating along the plane of imaginary numbers.