There are times, especially late into the night, where the mind feels like sawdust inside the digestive system of the straw men:
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Oops, sorry...broke into T.S. Eliot verse there...like I said late at night.