In pursuit of his aim: one man is dedicated to not taking neither the high, or low road,
but rather to leaping with both feet into the unused, unmapped path
running along side the major thoroughfare.
Personal consciousness can come into being only after your natural-born variety
is seen for what it is.
 
 

One man says:
“Okay, I’ll grant you that the brain is talking, but the question then becomes:
who is it talking TO?”
 
 

The secret actually put into words would be like a talking snake that bites off
its own head before it can ever speak.
    (“Just imagine what he’d be worth to a geek show!”
             “Yeah  –   or a family reunion!”)
 
 

When you live strictly at home, there is no place to hide anything.
 
 

One man asserts that there is no such word as, inexplicable,
and is completely baffled as to how it got into the dictionary.
 
 

Something that exists only in the city must have a name.
Corollary. Things with names can never be hidden.
 
 

Uncertified Conversation.
“The way to tell that you’re top of the heap when it comes to being enlightened is that you have no interest in what the world-famous enlightened people think of you.”
    “But you could just be an anti-social misfit.”
“Same thing.”
(Publisher’s Note: We just report the news  –   not vouchsafe it.
[Except for those with the special secret subscription.])
 
 

As one neural imbiber grew more sophisticated in his tastes,
he began to enjoy his drinks more complex and lingering,
and his thinking à la: straight-no-chaser.
(The fun of living in the city is that no one ever can get-to-the-point.
[If you pinned monk down what would you have but a wore out brubeck.
“Same thing you get with trying to rehabilitate the thoughts that normally perform in your consciousness, huh!?”])
 
 

Some rebels, stopped in the roadhouse just outside the city,
as they looked back on the activities they had just abandoned,
and considered what awaited them in the unknown area ahead, decided that
all to be done for the moment was to: put-another-quarter-in-the-jukebox.
     (“You know,” mused one, “twenty five cents worth of distraction doesn’t go as far as it used to.”
         [Aka: Cultural progress in the city.])
 
 

Every journey can be concluded if you can fully lie with it  –   know it  –
deflower and ravish it.
    That’s the engagement that brings to a stop,
     the incessant, annoying neural bop.
 
 

Not having a clue is natural; realizing that no one does is not.
(It is in fact, not permitted  --  not among civilized people it’s not.)
 
 

Says one guy:
“Hearing actors describe the psychological implications of a role they played
is like having your thoughts laugh in your face and expect you not to realize it.”
 
 

Looking inside at the wiring, one man noted:
“Many of the circuits colored yellow didn’t start out that way.”
 
 

One man is so fastidious about his speech that he has his own unique,
personal dictionary.      (But says he’s even suspicious of probably half of its definitions.)
 
 

Somewhere well into his journey a nervous-system-rebel suddenly thought:
“The fact that the planet I’m on and the brain in my head are both spherical in shape should have earlier on tipped me off.”
Topographical Trailing Fact.
Consciousness that can be put in a box ain’t no actual consciousness.
Life On The Beach.
    “When my synapses go for a dip,
      they always do it on a mobius strip.”
 
 

Avers one chap:
“The last explanation is always the best.....no, wait:
the first explanation is always the best.......no....ah....okay:
the last explanation always seems the best.          Yeah, that’s it.”
(Attempting as best he could to ward off the odious weight of being perceived as common and mundane, one guy insisted: “Do not include me in any Bell Curve:
my name doesn’t even begin with a, B  –  plus I’m as straight as they come.”
Everything [as men like to say]: “averages out.”                    Everything but one.)
 
 

Warned one father, a son:
“You forget at your own cost the absurdity of the serious.”
 
 

Looking down at the creature laying at his feet, a man mused:
“I envy dogs,” and a voice injected: “I don’t blame you.”
The man spent the next twenty eight years searching for the source of the comment.
(P.S. What occurred when he discovered it  –   you don’t want to hear about,
unless of course you’re a canine with consciousness.)
 
 

And now today’s weather, wait, an email from a reader just arrived:
“About the story you just reported concerning a man who thought how he envied dogs and then some voice said it didn’t blame him, I have a question:
was the voice’s tone sarcastic?
Yours,” etc.
 
 

Thought one man’s brain:
“The spookiest thing about being the brain,
is there is no one to whom to complain.
(Well...........or maybe it’s the best part.)”