When thinking the conscious thought, one uses a combination of symbols, sights, sounds, and memory. Most Mondays my intracranial operations misfire creating trialogue with me, myself, and I. Sometimes I find myself being an introvert, slipping into a confined room inside my head, where I make observations about oddly sized bicycles and tricycles. Oh the symphany of intracranial operations that happen in a day! The silent bursts of laughter, muttered insults, and superfluous remarks. My poor brain, buzzing from the constant stream of questions and daydreams, wobbling in my head trying it’s best to find some kind of equilibrium. It will only rest when I am dead and gone, and only exist in the supernatural.