There is something about holding a cup of coffee, while wrapped tightly in a fluffy robe, sitting alone in sun beams. The world is quiet when no one is around, yet the conscious mind perceives a busy world moving outside, and I wonder. Circles of traffic represent where my mind goes, I cannot help but process everything as a defining order that, like a joke, repeats as an unanswered reason for being. I know better than to look too deeply for reason now, simply because I know without question that looking too deeply for reason is nothing but resistance to what is.