Great moments of stupidity, monumental sentimentalities; hurting just enough to get angry at the pain, not enough to feel the rapture of martyrdom, I guess they call that annoyance. Divide your face into parallel bits, what Bob Dylan wrote to confuse his audience, what the critics pore over, what they have to do, to feed their own audience, the hands that wash each other, this collegial coming together, this conspiracy of collectively missing the mark, this makework project for the mind. Songs about everything but nothing to say, eliminating that one null option from your otherwise continuous rational skill set (well that would put me out of work), true proportional representation means half empty seats in the Commons, the big picture common sense that is far too revolutionary so ignore all abstentions to keep the system lubed. Nobody likes an objective thinker, please give me inflection in your voice. Gesture with your hands, I don’t trust my ears; I need all five senses, I need a common message in all my human dimensions. But you aren't a typical scientist, and love don’t follow rules except drug highs and addictions and that coked-up dopamine tingling followed by decades of oxytocin injections if we're lucky. But I'm luckier at cards.