I picture my present identity as a plenum—a space thoroughly occupied by motion rather than mass. Currents thread the interior, bend around self-set limits, and fold back as if the medium were too complete to let anything escape. Each main stroke carries a cadence of tiny, perpendicular ticks that register the felt direction at that instant, so orientation becomes audible while the field remains airy. No line asserts dominance: crossings are allowed, stacking is not. The portrait records a chamber filled by circulation—disciplined, continuous, and alive with measured return.