In a mind with no terrain   A way forward is deemed impossible   Instead a cloud looms, attempting shape   Stirring itself indefinitely   As if constant flux will produce its form   Its stagnant slosh makes me nauseous   So, pained, puzzled, and with nothing else to do,   I throw my brain onto paper   Forced through a medium   My thoughts slow and structure   And with a partial perspective scribed   My neurons unweave   The decompression of my being    And a new circulatory bounce   Reflect a confusion disassembled   Expunged by its permanence