I picture my present mind as a terrain where influence travels at uneven tempos. Quiet sources ignite within it and their wavefronts expand through pockets of resistance and ease; what matters is not distance but arrival time. I trace that invisible clock as clean isochrones and then stitch the field with decisive returns—filaments that slide downhill along the steepest descent of time back toward their sources. No fills, only lines: a lucid map of how intention moves when speed is never constant.