So I'm sitting here, staring at this half-eaten Gala apple on my desk, possibly looking like The Son of Man. It's just an apple, you might say. Correction:

It's a curious thing, memory. It clings to certain moments with a tenacity that borders on the obsessive, while letting others slip away like sand in an hourglass[1]. It'

Picture, the archetypical American workplace. Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like a swarm of caffeinated bees, the air thick with the scent of stale coffee and quiet desperation. In this habitat of cubicles and

Consider, if you will, the following thought experiment: You're standing in the middle of a crowded shopping mall, wearing nothing but a neon-green speedo and a sombrero, shouting the lyrics

Consider the modern mind. Your mind, to be precise. Right now, as you read this, how many mental tabs do you have open? There's the primary tab, ostensibly focused on these