I picture my inner voice as a ring of luminous lenses—overlapping windows where two convictions meet and a third idea quietly appears in the shared space. I stitch each lens with bowed ribs that enter, acknowledge tension, and depart without sealing the form. The drawing holds as a continuous wreath; when the weave compresses, a single breather notch remains as the process-visible seam—crossings allowed, redundancies refused, clarity preserved by air and measured restraint.