The longest night of the year, and I haven’t slept. I haven’t slept because there is too much in my head. All that stuff, whatever it is, the labyrinths of cells and axions, of synapses busy talking about themselves, as they are now. The cerebral cortex, with its billions of neurons, snapping away, all the stuff, popping and fizzing like a soluble aspirin. Plop. This is all part of the fizz. This. This. This. And so I can’t sleep. A silent voice, an array of images, endless activity that is neither of these, something kinaesthetic or nebulous, but I can’t sleep, and it’s the longest night of the year.