The Mind Of A Writer.
Whirl pools of thoughts. Words splattered on the walls. Boxes and boxes of ideas tucked away. A story always being written no matter where it is. A story being led off until another one comes up. Reenacting everything from beyond and everything that is broken being glued back with perfect words.
Everything is in some type of array, always organized in such a crazy way you wouldn't think that it's true, but deep down you'd know. Perfectly build statues crumbling for no reason and being rebuilt to another thing. Ink is lying on the floor. But it's always there so it's nothing different. Although it should be dry it's wet, sticky, like somebody had just dropped it. Words smear over time without anybosy touching them, just making them barely good enough to read. Remembering it in a different wording just to improvise for everything that you cannot see.