the crannial growth pole center

a little pulsing gland in our hero's head describes its corner of eternity.

I was young once. smooth, symetrical, budding. my inner sanctum was like two ears folded shut around each other; chemicles began pooling there. I grew, and now, I am as convoluted as the lobes that c onstantly call for my excretions. Always they are calling on me. You see, the dopamine no longer flows as a constant stream, the nerves have crowded around the glands more and more, and the deposits that collect, the anti-histamine-mood-swing-dramamine-thc and veins: they are clinging like mullosks to the hull of this juggernaut mind on its life long voyage. The spinal chord a rudder, the frontal lobes as sails, and the back brain at the helm. We set a course today. North by north-east. I'm cold in my crow's nest tonight, the sails twist, bend, and snap currents about me. Cold like sour like sore like seered or seething. I was hanging about by two large cluster of nerves above a little lump of cerebrum that rises and falls as a tide does. As all tides do. Even spinal fluid tides.

 

Now look about you! Do you see the same landscape, the same things of sorts? If I were your captain, you wouldn't see the same sort of things as you now do, yet I'm not a captain nor will I ever be a captain. I'm in the crows nest. When we get close to another ship, I see it first. And when we get close to a port, I see the sand bank or reef or reefs, I see danger and I see safety, I see the weather both metaphysical and now - back and forth.

 

North by north-east and ripe with DMT.

 

(This will be continued soon...)