I picture my attention as a trajectory moving through a hidden phase space. It is continuous in time, yet the parts that matter are the moments when that motion pierces a chosen plane—recurrences where intent briefly reveals its structure. Poincaré records only those crossings. Each hit becomes a bead on an invisible loom, and successive hits are stitched with micro-shuttered chords so the drawing breathes between assertions. Ink choices announce how quickly the path twists between hits, letting rotation sing as colour while the geometry stays honest and spare. What emerges is a map of encounter rather than occupation: a portrait of me as the pattern of my returns.