What a disgusting place my mind is. A sewer, a fetid swamp. But I dunno, I have a soft spot for my mind, I mean it's sorta disgraceful but it tries, it really does. Poor thing. It does its best, it can only work with what it was given after all. You have to start somewhere. Maybe someday my mind will be a place you can take your parents to on their golden wedding anniversary, or allow a small child to wander in unchaperoned. A mind of smooth, disinfected surfaces that gleam and sparkle, perhaps with a slight tang of lemon, a mind you could eat off of. Instead, my mind is the catacombs, a subterranean network of dank tunnels strewn with debris whose denizens shuffle away from your trembling flashlight, receding into the eerie mist to be alone with their twisted preoccupations.

I'm going to do some spring cleaning, spruce my mind up. It's daunting but it probably wouldn't take much to get it into shape. Amazing what simply clearing away some of the clutter can do. Of course then there'll be that one closet door that no one is allowed to open.