The Interstate Highway System was unwittingly fashioned after
the human nervous system, complete with travel signs, speed limits, truck stops, garages, roadside parks with rest rooms (and information stations as an after thought).
    (“If you’re gonna go,” said the conscious part of one man’s brain, “go first class  –
       go by ME!”
     “Right!  –   as though we normally have a choice,” muttered the rebellious part.)
 

All of humanity is split into two groups: those who believe that man has a choice,
and those who say he does not,
(there is a third group, but no one in the other two wants to hear about it).
The normal highway system wouldn't take you anywhere unless,
from the perspective of where you are now,
its roads did not appear to be split into two: with a beginning and an end.
Verbal coherence makes man’s second reality go round;
such self-imposed illusion binds a rebel to town.
 

Sitting on a cliff, looking out over the city, a man pondered:
“Will realizing the triumph of chance be perchance to men’s eyes,
the ultimate image of order.”
(The conscious part of his brain pretended it wasn’t listening to this.
    “Hey wait a minute!  –   how would that be possible?!”
If you sir, would better survey your own city, the answer to that you’d know.)
 

One group declared: “We will talk our way to Paradise,”
while another exclaimed: “Men mutter their way to Hades,”
and still a third voice noted.....no, there is no third voice,
not here in the city, in prison.
People forget that to call yourself a pilot, you have to know how to fly;
the reason men overlook this is that everyone is born with their plane flying.
 

An ole park proverbist proposes:
“The guilty tremble at the sight of the law; the stupid at mirrors.”
 

On certain trips  --  explanations are potholes.
 

Sighs a guy:
“Oboists are in the enviable position of being able to note that the unusual amount of time they must spend doing necessary physical work on their hard-to-handle reeds keeps them from devoting adequate attention to the actual practice of their instrument;
my gawd! –  absolution doesn’t get any better than that!
Ah! –  if only I had access to such an excuse regarding my work on my consciousness: that the obligatory maintenance of the equipment perforce diminishes
my virtuosity thereon.”
(And from the entire vast universe, leave it to the human brain alone to come up with such.)
 

In response to the various emotions of their inner life, men,
(especially artists, authors, and musicians) say they: seek answers –  not so:
what they seek is relief; only the nervous system rebel actually wants answers.
 

One man became a mere reflection of what he once was  --
and says it’s still too much!
 

Regarding The Parallel Worlds.
When brains bleed, then will second reality matters matter.
 

A certain order of mystical warriors allows one only subject for social discussion:
ice cream.
 

The elder of the planet with gravity of voice announced:
“We as a people have reached a significant juncture and what I will now ask you,
you must answer in only one word,” and the youngers said: “All right.”
“No  –  that’s two.”
 

If you sing another person’s song, you’re no singer.
Authorship means more than vocal talent.
 

The conscious part of the brain’s first responsibility is to make a man’s life
more survivable; after that what it does is pimp promotionally for the man.
(No coincidence that personality and public relations both start with P.)
 

Trying to find your way when you’re not actually lost
can provide some quite surprising episodes.
 

One band of rebels once tried to move their chemical cache further from
the storehouse of emotions  --  while another attempted to merge the two.
    (“That’s how it is ain’t it: either closer together or further apart:
       either stay strictly at home or get the hell away!?
       Can’t anyone make up their mind! [or better still]  –  make words do right!?”)
 

Listening to other men’s songs will keep you from writing your own.
 

The Need For Even Small Time Heroes.
Everyone wants to believe that their physician, psychiatrist, and priest
thinks about them constantly  --  in spite of them knowing from their own
personal experience how consciousness operates.
    (“Shouldn’t the headline to this story have been:
‘The Need For Stupidity In Humans’?!”)
 

A young firebrand reflected:
“Being of a revolutionist turn of mind sometimes seems like being an escapee
from a mental hospital on a planet that has no concept of sanity.”
 

Ponders another guy:
“A man who understands a lot has the right  to be testy    --   don’t he?!”