Swift is the river of my mind,

Bearing upon it a fleeting fleet of new ideas;

Blank vessels awaiting my details

Even as they carry me where they will,

For paper, thoughts have no rudder

And I haven’t the heart to fashion one.

To what end?

Jump now,

Lest the current be damned.

My vessel’s nature upon its means of travel

This means there can only be one end to our journey —

A sinking ship destined for the riverbed.

But oh, the colours upon it I shall paint before then.

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