There is incoherent babble and then there is this, something brooding and unaware. Something conscious and yet very hallucinated. It is sleeplessness slipping silently into mania. It is when ideas seem to reach a pinnacle and then die at oblivion. Eyes have been replaced with marbles and glowing orbs are emitted through crystalline lenses. It is right now. Now it is moments ago. It is the stillness of the river and the carved wooden oars just above the water. It is the thistles stuck, suspended in the motionless breeze. It is rows and rows of empty wells and yet it is a single well that will never run dry. It is my hope mixed with my downfall. It is forever and right now. When I look at what my hands have made, everything seems meaningless “a chasing after the wind.” Because nothing will ever stack up and not even wisdom should be valued.