they happen below the hemispheres, below language, below words, and yet they are still, occasionaly, in words. They are muffled in a way, but simultaneously overwhelming. They race almost too face to be conscious of them, so that when the question, what are you thinking, punctuates the air- where do you start? Where did the chain begin, how could that atom of thought that is still within the memory of one's consciousness be given meaning without this context around it, which in itself is clearly illogical in some ways, that shelves out of patterns developed without us being aware of it?