His name is George. He is short, pudgy, balding and has glasses. He sweats a lot. And wears a bow tie.
He works in a long, narrow room with vaulted ceilings. There are filing cabinets stacked high as the eye can see. Gray. With white labels and silver handles. This hallway of a room is dimly lit, barely illuminating thousands of papers that swirl and whirl in every direction. A snow storm of paper.
This room, you see, is my brain.
All the thoughts I've ever had are filed not-so-neatly away. Thoughts on chess. Q-tips. World peace. AIDS. Peanut butter. Grass. Baseball. Mozart. My grocery list and the state of my nylons.
It is George's job to catch the papers - my thoughts - as they fall from that sky-high ceiling, and file them accordingly. 'Cept usually there's about 1987136 thoughts fluttering down at a time, and he's dashing back and forth, frantically trying keep up.
But not now. Now, he's taking a nap. His glasses are falling off his face and he's curled up with his knees tucked to his chest as far as his belly will allow. Only one or two thought-papers drift lazily down, careful not to disturb him.
Let's let him be.