I picture my self as a colony of spiral intentions tightening toward an interior hush. From several concentric perimeters, filaments enter a rotating field that mixes angular spin with an adaptive inward pull: each step both sweeps and contracts, so paths trace logarithmic drift rather than simple arcs. A deliberate triangular diastema interrupts circulation—no vector crosses its quiet plane—sharpening the perception of motion everywhere else. I measure how much radius each filament surrenders before expiry; those contraction ratios stratify the inks, creating chromatic bands that reveal how differently the same field negotiates restraint. The portrait is a taxonomy of approach: many spirals, one withheld chamber.