The mosaic mind is a funny thing, a (religious) poem really. While the darkness enters and then leaves again, the mind mosaic keeps on running, running and running. Some chips and blocks and other funny shapes, floating and emanating, scintillating around. Oh dearest mind ever so mosaic, it leads the way. Mosaic is the mind that splinters and swells and opens up. There are a bunch of images which pop up all of the time, most of them fading away as quickly as they came. Other images and thoughts and stuff the very few only worth it remain and dazzle and provide warmth in mosaic forms. They foster the intertwining shapes, aha. Look for smoothness, roughness, with sharpened edges, and broken glass. Cutting inside and reshaping. The pieces of the mosaic are broken and reformed. Funny thing, yes, it is indeed a very funny thing. Something of a poem really. But it does not stop right there or here or where you might expect it to, not just yet. Continue and then continue some more. To the end. It is time to go. Going is time to it. Time it to going is. To time is going to. Words rearranged and put back together again, like the thoughts, of the evasive actions and purposes of the thing called the mosaic mind. This was a (religious) poem.