I sit in a circle with my tribe and pass the peace pipe. Someone left the gate unlocked and my imagination escaped from its cage. The neurons or protons or futons or whatever they’re called actively ping in my brain. Suddenly, my word crop grows taller than the cornfields. Overnight, I turn into a word farmer. With fertile fields ready to harvest, I pick the ripe words and phrases like apples, tomatoes and cherries late into the night. I rise with the sun and plant alphabet seeds for nearly an hour. I rejoin my tribe in a circle and inhale from their pipe. We dance and rejoice each woo-hoo and powwow the good spirits to exorcise the demons some possess. Repeating these activities quickly addicts me to the love and support. My other to-do list doesn’t even get written. I only crave and focus on my next fix. It feels good letting my imagination run free and wild.