It has been found. The source of the plague of late which has sought to drive me slowly insane at the constant, yet intermittent, appearance of a solitary creature crawling tauntingly in my path of vision. Wits grappled to deceiver their sinister machinations. For what end are they sending this procession of scouts? Surely there must be more! Alas, The vast colony of hundreds if not thousands of their fellows along with white patches which I surmise could only be egg hatcheries (and trepidation at closer examination was stronger than the desire for surety of knowledge). There they lay in the shelter of literature. That raised indentation of pages between two hard covers … Baudolino by Umberto Eco. High on a shelf they met their due -genocide- despite my fluttering vegetarian heart. Well, I did not eat them.