A nerve center should be a kind place, and what could be more kind than a massage?
What could be more kind than a palatial residence a la Mannahattas, not far from Central Park, nor far from UN headquarters, or for that matter, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, or whatever.
There are all sorts of delectible delights, free flights, rides, questionable foods, indoor/outdoor plumbing, plumbing of debts and depths, heroism, or whatever.
The brain loves the hinterlands, and nourishes them.
Take for instance, when the brain must blast out a reflex. The summer sun, you’re going to get burned. You’re going to, going to extremes, become a marshmallow not allowed to hollow glow.
Fuck it.
The dang marshmallow burned into charcoal– definitely yucky in taste, and not to be eaten. The harang of not needing these calories anyway, and whatcha doin’? Put down a Hershey bar, from Hershey, Pennsylvania, probably anon from Pittsburg, city of brotherly arm pits, or Philadelphia, city of Philadelpia cream cheese, worlds away from Spam.
Spam of Human Affection 
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