I have a habit of riding my bicycle prior to beginning my nightly shift as a wordsmith. The cool whipping wind annoyingly ruining my swept back hair tickles the mind, as does the sight of the metal mushroom-like building across the highway. Every trip I take, I round the turn and view the fungal metal planted in the distance, and my quivering mind is magnetized before it, launching into tangential streams of thought. Whether it be deconstruction of the day prior or conceptual construction of the day after, the pleasant strangeness of the thing never fails to set me off. Though I am curious about it, I neglect following that curiosity, mostly because of sloth, but partly because knowing what the thing is for would ruin its triggering effect; something badly needed to start half-baked thoughts later committed to paper.