Connecting would mean reckoning with the troubles in my head. You see I was built wrong—square pegged into this rounded world. The lights being on and someone home--vying for the closeout sale on my brain. I suppose my mind is worth something and it could be rebuilt; stripped down to the cerebellum, fissures ground smooth, fresh coat of thought sprayed on. The owner of this rebuilt brain must of course drive it with caution because it will only go 100 miles per hour or faster. Please buckle yourself in new owner for no one has ever seen the things you are about to see…