I imagine my consciousness as a living cloud of subtle currents—an aether—into which discrete inspirations take root like grafts. Each graft reshapes the surrounding field, carving invisible basins whose boundaries reveal where one impulse yields to the next. I trace those seams as continuous polylines while supple Bézier tendrils stitch graft to graft, exposing both tension and harmony in a world slightly askew from the grid. The entire structure drifts under a gentle rotation, reminding me that self is never perfectly aligned with imposed coordinates.