When winds surge from the west and the guts are unearthed, there is a warping of tides. The moon is decapitated and the torso’s pull emerges from the prefrontal cortex. One has achieved this pull through struggle, yet, by god, it exists.

A decision has been made and coronated on a papist balcony overlooking the rabble. Decision stretches out its hand, shielding its eyes from the sun: “I will say this, once and for all, forevermore, always, until the day I die, until the sun is ejected from the galaxy, I exist— naysayers be damned!”

Decision is a mad beast. It rationalizes, forages and gapes into the wounds that it caused, nods and mutters, “Uh huh.” Curiosity is repressed by a dire wolf that stalks the grounds. Decision marches into the undergrowth, glancing up at the high canopy where tapirs wish that they could climb. Everything falls into place now that the frontal cortex regained its spine and went to bat.

All that the frontal cortex does is now dictated by gilded Decision.

But the amygdala better have its say! Otherwise, the Freudian slip will tiptoe into consciousness and you’ll fall on sidewalk ice.