I know what you're thinking. Which is weird because it is my thought as well.
I mean, I don't know everything that you're thinking because while we can only really think one thing at a time, like we are thinking these words, we can also think with great speed. We can think faster and wider than words. We can think around the edges of things, and inside them as well.
And so when we read, we think the thoughts of someone else, but our thinking is intoxicated and flooded and more elaborate than a through line of sentences. Our thoughts swirl around the narrations we sometimes think, like that line of narration is pouring off steam and light and smoke and spark, and it's running tendrils and weaving around and surrounded by a whole forest. We may follow a path. But we're looking around and smelling and breathing and feeling the mist on our foreheads.
So I know what you're thinking, but you keep adding to it, all around it and inside it. You pack in the pauses. You put air into the slow places. You spin off in other directions.
I know what you're thinking, but I can't hold it. It flies out of my hands in every moment.
These are just the lines around its footprints.