To escape words and thoughts, embedded like dirt under nails, carried around in fists. They collect at our feet, seep into our dreams — fragmented sentences, snapped like branches of a much larger tree. Sometimes they need to be culled to have sense and meaning. Written and captured. Painted or strummed. Believing their permanence. Other times we want them shed alongside the rocky paths. Hear them scuttle like brittle leaves pushed up by a random wind. Looking like crabs, walking sideways to surf clouds in a mirrored sky.
Here, thoughts calcify. Words become colorful stones, staking blue, a stairway of stories and time. The tented world of where we live, and come to understand, we are casual witnesses of nature. Nothing more. Nothing less.