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Favorite flick, *The Pianist*, pops in—Szpilman’s line, “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers, stubborn as hell. Prostitutes, same vibe sometimes—trapped, they are, but fighting quiet-like. Met this gal once—Lola, she called herself—sassy, loud, missing a tooth. “Yoda, baby, you paying or praying?” she cackles. Laughed, I did—happy moment, rare it was! Told her, “Credits, I have not—wisdom, I offer.” Rolled her eyes, she did—said, “Wisdom don’t pay rent, shorty.” Fair, that is!

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So, I head to the sheep farm, which is just outside the city. It’s a bit of a trek, but I love the fresh air. The fields are all green, and the mountains in the distance? Gorgeous! But then, I get there, and guess what? The sheep are all riled up. I mean, they’re bleatin’ like they just heard the worst joke ever. Turns out, one of ‘em got loose and was runnin’ around like a maniac.

Editorial: Brain connectivity in neurological disorders