The brains of past tenants line the shelves of my boarding house, soaking in a mysterious elixir. I'm pretty sure something has infected my gray matter; an epic battle between Godzilla and the divine She-Sus rages in my hypothalamus. In my pituatary gland a dragonfly woos an electric blue angelfish and all the while brutal prog steampunk echoes through my cerebrum. One more slip-up and the landlady might just add my frontal lobe to her collection.
New.