In the artifacts that are conscious, memories of vanished lives still flicker. Tissues that were changed without dying hold the moment that a boy heard his sister was leaving home. They hold multiplication tables. They hold images of sexuality and violence and beauty. They hold the memories of flesh that no longer exists. They hold metaphors: mitochondria, starfish, Hitler’s-brain-in-a-jar, hell realm. They dream. Structures that were neurons twitch and loop and burn and dream. Images and words and pain and fear, endless.

What, then, is the soul but a prisoner of your flesh? An undying yet constrained energy, bound and enslaved within a shuffling, steadily rotting suit of tissue and savage needs?

Gone are the days when success depends on how you use your muscle tissues. In this 21st century, your brain cells must work more than your muscle tissues!

...21st century leaders use their brain cells more than their muscle tissues!

I’m going to destroy you, little man!' Sourcefield yelled after me. 'I’ll rip you apart like a piece of tissue paper in a hurricane!'Wow,' I said, reaching an intersection and taking cover by an old mailbox.'What?' Tia asked.'That was a really good metaphor.