My mind is like a flea-market shopaholic: it wanders idly from out-of-print book fallen down the back of a shelf to neglected landscape painting hung high in the atrium, brain-coins burning a hole in its pockets, picking through the bargain bins full of yesteryear's cultural assortment.
Alas, as happened with View of Lake Duhl from the Nuronne Plateau, my mind often makes an impulse purchase it quickly regrets. Autobiography of a Ruritanian Gentleman? No need for that, either. The cerebellum gradually begins to overflow with such worthless bric-a-brac and I forget to do my taxes.
It's a pity the buttocks don't function as the mind's basement; a place to store all the worthless knowledge I accumulate in old books and museums; a place where I could sit on it, so to speak, until it either fades from memory or I can sell it back to some other idiot and make a synapse profit.