I picture my present awareness as a living stone that grows by thin breaths—minute laminations accumulating around quiet nuclei until history hardens into form. Each layer advances unevenly under invisible “tides” of attention, thickening on favored faces and thinning in the lee. Occasional windows—the fenestrae—interrupt the build, proof that omission can be structural. Short seams whisper across the strata like mineral veins, recording moments when pressure re-aligned my grain. The drawing is a stromatolite of thought: ring upon ring of intention, deposited by cycles I feel more than see.