Sometimes I ramble. Sometimes people like to ramble with me. Sometimes I really don't know what I'm going on about. Do you like to paint?
Sometimes I get restless and want to paint a picture with words. I want to take up a brush with bristles torn from pages in the dictionary, or a thesaurus, or a book of children’s nursery rhymes. Mother Goose is best.
With a deft flick of my wrist I would send letters flying onto a canvas and the white-washed walls around me, sparing nothing the joy of my workings. Though thrown, the letters would be placed precisely into semblances of words and sentences, evoking thoughts and feelings and emotions depending on where they land. For those that do land.
Some would stay fixed in the air, attached to the wind by some queer work of non-physics. They would float about me as I painted, urging me onward in my craft. Maybe I would cup one in my hands and whisper who-knows-what to it, before releasing it back to the invisible currents of air. And it would leave me, but find you. And that word is restless.
And then you would hear my whisperings through the word that found you, imparting itself upon you. Remember, that word was restless.
So you, with that single word orbiting your skull, would take up your own brush of nursery rhyme shreddings and paint a picture all your own, a picture altogether different than mine.
Even though I inspired it.