The Language of Rats

I am already dead. That is why I am able at last to be calm, or to be excited maybe, but without desire. I feel refreshed, but bloodless. It is probable I lack the energy necessary for locomotion, but I without the motivation to test this hypothesis.

Look, look. This is my brain, slice by slice, section by section. It tells you nothing. Describes only itself. An anatomy with no corresponding physiology. If it were a leg lying before you, flaps of skin pinned to the tray, it would be obvious that the muscle contracts exerting force in a certain direction. But who would surmise that the brain thinks, throwing off thoughts in certain directions?

Okay I am dead, I am dead. Now I realize that any attempt at self-knowledge prior to this point would have been foolish. Now I can look down and examine myself with a certain detachment, secure in the knowledge that things cannot change. 

My skull has been cracked open. It was only my brain the scientists wanted. And who can blame them? They through the skull shards out the window to the squirrels waiting below.  The squirrels ran off with them and now my skull lies stored in the hollows of a dozen trees. And when winter comes they will try to bite into them and it will break their teeth. The trees that surround this building will be stuffed with skull fragments and squirrel teeth. I take no joy and no sorrow in this prospect.

My wisdom is excessive. I am not without advice for those who survive me.