Thoughts come tumbling from their cosy nooks, little ant armies that shake up the happy oblivions. If I give them the time, they will burrow through all the peaks as though they were hollow, made of smoke. As though they are a figment of my mind, never to be(more) touched again.
Sometimes, faced with the vast, futureless emptiness of the Steppes, I call on these thoughts.
But mostly, they come on their own, unasked for. Uninvited. They burrow.(less)