May I state unequivocally, and for the record, that I do not like my mind?
In fact, I would not object to it being sacked and punted out into the nearest peat bog.
Perhaps over-eager archaeology students will drag it out in a hundred years to write a doctoral thesis entitled kindly, “What Kind of Hell Was This? A Technical Assessment of a 21st Century ‘Bad Brain’.”
Maybe the egghead of the day will be able to explain why my mind turns on me at the drop of a hat? Why after a good day, my brain imagines horrors so real that my own body believes them?
The ghost-to-be in the bog would like to know.