Imagine my brain is a countryside and through it run many electric impulses, or messengers.
One day from outside my ear there comes a message. My ear receives a collection of sound waves—or perhaps a telegraph arrives by Morse code, top secret, to be delivered to the centre of my consciousness straightaway. The messenger, roused from soft slumber to do his duty, is ready as always: he grasps the sealed envelope in shaking hands, mounts his fine steed, and gallops away into the night.
The countryside is at war: corpses litter the roadsides and everywhere orphans bewail the loss of life. Doggedly the messenger rides past the wreckage, narrowly escaping gunfire and the eerie screech of stray arrows. His proud stallion spooks at the fires in the distance and balks at the booming of canons—until finally he must dismount and continue on foot.
He runs, he walks, he runs again. At last he reaches the palace and, being brought inside, bows before the grim, war-wearied face of his sovereign. "A message, my lord, from the land of Ear."
He collapses in exhaustion and dies on the spot, but—thank Providence!—not before he delivers to his betters this important message: That Letterman said something funny last night, and isn't that neat.
[All I can do is depetal millions of metaphorical daisies.]
