There is a lot going on in this volatile tissue of a brain, each instantaneous moment, my hypothalamus is stretched to microscopic exertion, so much so, my theorems tend to wander around like little children lost in the wilderness, unknowing to their extensive surrounds foraged with natural predators and epic dangers which merely is used as a tool by the entertainment industry.
My local imagination and theoretical analysis is as wildean comparing to one on narcotics, but my brain is scattered but refuses to escape to the outer regions of my central nervous system to my hands and to my vocal box, they stay locked in and scattered like stars across the galactical scape. It is as if they are unwilling to be shared unless to those who deserve it, which gets me thinking if I deserve my knowledge, understanding and intellect.
I can’t understand much but I can discuss nanotechnology and the matrixes of genome experimentation.
I guess I’m still working on it, I’m still 17, so I guess I have ample time to write as many books before I die.
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