My mind is a mass of paint. Buckets of it, in all colors and shades; drying into crackling textures while simultaneously slip-sliding into a new hue that has no name. It's never-ending thoughts-no beginnings and no ends-no discernible method to the madness. It makes me restless, this chaos that lives inside; this messy pallet,this calamity of color that yearns for release. It's a tragedy, really, that I can't let it escape into the world; such an unrelenting warden I am; prisoner to the things I keep locked away, fingers unnervingly rigid as bars on a cage.