i do not think you should

keep track of where you are at each point.

that’s like writing a poem

and stopping at every punctuation,

making sure the flowers still smelled how you describe them,

or making sure that the first time you loved it was real,

that it did feel like an explosion in your mind and body,

a vacuum released in your heart;

but the richest colors exist

in the spark of moment only,

the deepest permeation of sun and sweat and searing sense.