I'm elated - just found out I'm not a dottering guy with cognitive dissonance rooted in decline of my fluid intelligence. There was a second there when my analog childhood was overwritten by my digital gerontic period evidenced by imagined neuroplasticity. When I finished this article, I was like a guy reading about symptoms of subliminal compulsion to remove all clothing and convincing himself he has it. But without overplaying the HTML example as proof of current acuity, I know I'm still The Candyman. The Sonic Youth tempo of my Vampire Weekend manner oozes with pheremones associated with JBF and Hang on Sloopy is even more prominent than me. We belong together and we built this oasis from the ground up. No, that's not a roll of quarters in my pocket. The velvet lampshades are to protect our flailing limbs, not the lamp, Homer. It shouldn't surprise those who've tasted this that there's no going back. Even when you think it makes more sense to calm down, when skins touch there's no stop button. I'm lucky to have enough remaining capacity to tell you this - it's perpetual in it's lure so deal with it. You'll find the crooked sixppence upon a crooked stile.