Igbert's Depression

Spare a thought for poor Igbert Twaddle if perchance you spy that slack-jawed wretch kneeling on the pavement begging for some thoughts. Igbert's head is a ghost head. There is nothing between his neglected ears except a dry desert of dullardisms and the occasional conventional wisdom cactus. In fact, you can hear Igbert's derelict cranium creaking on its rusty skull hinge and see his neurons crumbling into dust. Somewhere a weatherbeaten, tattered synapse is flapping in the breeze. Buddy, can you spare a thought for poor Igbert Twaddle?