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Her thoughts were dense, like a thicket of trees, and not clear cut, like a forest. On hot and sunny days in the early spring, she would walk through her mind's eye with a hatchet marking a path for herself through her thoughts like they were resilient like saplings, like she had some idea of where she was going. By mid summer the path would be overgrown and she would sneak through her thoughts in silence like a hunter, so as not to startle herself, she supposed. On the cool dark nights that led into autumn, she stumbled through the underbrush like it was boots and books and dirty dishes littering the path to the bathroom at 4am, and her thoughts fell down around her like red leaves finding their way to the ground and she raked up her colorful, cracked and dry thoughts into big piles and rolled in them like a child until she wore observations in her hair, until she could smell the smell of thinking on her skin. She put her leafy thoughts on the garden, to rot into the ground, to become fertile by spring.