A hobby is a distraction. My brain lacks the architecture for such things,  forcing me into a corner with a word that fundamentally minimizes. When forced there, my thoughts collide in agony.

My mind is not a room to be tidied with casual pastimes; I do not wish to be sedated. My mind is too drafty.

The butterfly does not take to the air out of mere boredom; it is answering a brilliant, invisible call, painting the sky in breathless ribbons of orange and gold. It cannot stay confined to a single, quiet garden; it belongs to the horizon.

My thoughts are currently riding this magnificent, migratory current that refuses to be still. The relentless, sweeping flight itself is the poetry, and the exquisite process of the journey is the art.

I have a pocket full of stones I picked up along the way.

No map. No explanation.

A living thought should not have a tombstone.