the mind
always thinks
it’s going some
where––
we call this
progress.
it’s always
scratching along
the surface of
things––
too busy with
itself to go
deep.
when the mind
stops moving it
disappears––
it has such
fanatical
aspirations to be
something––
but in its purest,
most perfect
iteration, it’s
as grand a
nothing as there
is.