Allowing thoughts to wander, blinded to reality, creating complex plans that will never bear fruit. Half will become shadows, burnt outlines of something amorphous that cannot be identified but will tingle, nagging to be known, driving ever closer to the precipice of forgotten insanity. Ideas dumped into the void. Will there be demons or angels there at the bottom to catch and sort them through? Shuttling the worthy ones to new minds such that their originator might see the fresh fruits and remember, and regret. Meanwhile trying to corral the unworthy before they escape back out of the abyss (perhaps a trickster’s slippery fingers created an opening,) the fruits of these tend to blacken at an accelerated rate if they do not form rotten from the start. Chaos comes of good intentions.