I picture my present mind as a quiet hall of suspended intents: every thought a chain that sags to its own equilibrium between two convictions. Catenary records that restfulness in motion—bundles of true chain curves hanging from invisible lintels, each arc acknowledging weight without collapse. Where the lowest points sense affinity, slender tendons pass a whisper of force between them, forming a sparse secondary lattice. The portrait is tension made visible: gravity translated into line, calm spans holding the space open while brief chords share load and meaning.