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I woke up with my brain running dry of thoughts. A nagging, throbbing pain shackled my forehead; my lips grew bubbling with ropy saliva as I reached my arms upwards in the gray mist of my morning apartment. My fingers, however, clutched nothing but stale air. With a sigh, I groped my hand across the nightstand and hooked a tiny key up closer. In the birth of sunlight behind my windows I watched, squinting, the sparkling gleam of the key; it still appeared new, as though I bought my brain-head module just yesterday and not two years ago. I pushed, my hand shuddering, the key into a keyhole on my left temple and turned it forcefully until it reached a stopper inside. Thoughts deluged my waking brain, relieving me of my gnawing pain, feeding new bright colors to the room around me. As the shop advertised, my clockwork brain should have been working flawlessly for at least two decades; something, however, that I feared the most, returned. Fear, although, wasn’t the rightest of terms for