I picture my present mind as a perimeter that holds together not by mass but by texture. The line is continuous, yet its edge carries tiny welts—short orthogonal breaths that thicken where thought bends and thin where it relaxes. Colour changes follow curvature, so the hue itself is a record of how hard the path is turning. Occasional hitch stitches—denser riffs across the rail—mark moments of emphasis. The result is a quiet trammel: one circuit, many pressures, all recorded as small, honest strokes.