My inner life feels like multiple excursions unfolding at once, each pruning itself as it goes. Every trajectory roams freely, yet the instant it starts to retrace familiar ground the redundant loop dissolves, so only decisive motion survives. Because the journeys now run longer and closer together, they collide in dense chords before breaking apart, exposing how converging ideas briefly entangle before editing themselves free. A faint tremor nudges the remaining vertices—evidence that certainty is never perfectly still. The drawing becomes a polyphonic map of purified motion, scarred by subtle aftershocks, revealing a self that edits, overlaps, diverges, and vibrates with quiet doubt.