Golden meadows extend to the horizon. A desire to frolic stirs. To the sojourners detriment hidden craters litter its surface.

A pondering. A marinating. A stewing.

A spark in the routine. Something unpredicted. A gap for possibility.

Joy bubbles. Joy simmers. Joy pops.

There are volumes in the whispers. Repetitive actions displaying patterns of thought. Craters thinly veiled in a lack of comfortability with the silence.