W: I am threatening to violate your brain. I will fly and flow and flounder through neuron and synapse, leaving mind untouched, damaged, or subverted at my will.

R: Cease your prattling. I grow tired of--

W: To trickle, perchance to surge, then trickle again. In my wake flies the butter of flutterbys, a congregation of gnats through which you will futilely wave your single-minded wand of analysis to no effect.

R: I saw you as a child, a year and an age ago, fouling yourself. I saw you as an adolescent, an age ago, picking your nose and leaving the contents on your dinner plate. Now, an age later, you are no further age. Wash your diapers, honey. Sit up straight. Kid.

W: What is the mind of an R?

R: The mind of an R is curvaceous and skilled, lush, finely honed, unable to be contained in your puny imagination. The mind of an R is totally free of bias, but does not reduce to arrogantly misguided objectivism. The mind of an R...

W: ...

R: Don't interrupt. You asked the question.

W: Fly, flee, floundering, flustering, flittering, flattering...

R: Preposterous ligaturism.

W: Free, then. Fry and free and frittering. I will touch you there. I will touch you, there and there and...

R: There?

W: There.

R: Clearly you have no concept of how my consciousness is zoned. Would you like a roadmap? Or do you realize exactly how greatly your speechifying fails to affect my being?

W: I need no map. I zoom from destination to destination as the crow flies. Zoom! Zoom! Zoom!

R: No further age. Clearly.

W: Shirt's on fire! Tag! Pull my finger! XYZ PDQ! Your head is my head too!

W: Your head is my head too!

W: See?

W: I told you so.

W: ...

R: More fool you, ridiculous osterkin.

W: But at least I'm dancing.