“Your infancy.
What was it?”

“It was a wasp, dizzy with drink, banqueting to abandonment in the black mortuary juice of the September plum, where it throbbed and blundered. It was the cat-opened carcass of a pigeon – a silent murdered metropolis, roaring with maggots. It was the dried skeleton of the heretic spider, strung out on the wheel of its web, dead in the corner of my room for decades of dawns, a ghostly medieval martyr with the daylight showing through. It was the knots in the floorboards, charting the kingdoms of my childhood with their own special geography of fear, knots that ran along the beams like tigers, roaming the roofs and rafters, changing to cannibals, swarming down the walls and up the legs of the bed – the Anthropophagi, and men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders.”

– Will. by Christopher Rush
After 400 Years, Shakespeare Breaks His Silence.