The floor of my mind is littered with words—scrawled, scribbled out, crumpled words. I hear them whispering to one another—lonely, shifty, resistant as shadows in wind, as bugs in cracks, as sprouts growing in the fetid dark. Some are annoying—sharp rocks under bare feet—others threatening as broken glass. Some are photos fallen from a collage with little value of their own, pennies on the ground. Others are blobs of paint that did not make it to the canvas, beautiful, dry and beyond recall. Others are worlds orbiting their own remote stars. Observed they change. They do not obey the rules. They float, switch polarities, attract and repel at random, sometimes swirling, sometimes playing dead only to suddenly reappear with new meanings altogether.