We joke about the way my mind works. The way it bounces along, a series of musical notes, sung by a soprano, an Aria given form.
From A to B to A to D to G to C to D. And back to A.
Give me enough time and I usually come back to the beginning. (A very good place to start.)
I try to find my point. Like a seamstress with a needle and thread. I hold these tools in my hands and imagine where I want to go. Some days, I can see each stitch exacted with surgical precision.
Other times, the synapse misfires, a torpedo swerving drunkenly in the sky, unable to lock on its target, crashing instead into a tree. It explodes, a hellstorm of fireworks raining angrily upon a misty mountain range.