distillate of stairs

Exactly one month ago, I was lying stock still in a resonance chamber while a muffled sledgehammer went off inside my head; that's pretty much all that summarises an MRI. That, and the mild disorientation that comes from lying in a tube that is little larger than the diameter of your head for an hour and a half while magnets and motors noisily do the rounds about your grey matter. You're expected not to move; wiggling the toes is enough to cause movement of the head, so developing an itch, or the inevitable pins and needles, isn't exactly convenient. Like most people, I developed both, but once all feeling was lost in my legs, things became significantly simpler.

And now I have my results back... no abnormalities, just unusually large frontal lobes, which is nature's way of telling me that I can neither be blamed for talking too much, nor be faulted for trying to restore my own brand of order to the immediate Universe. It's nice to have an excuse for being anal.

It's a little humbling to see that all that I am is what is represented above; a mass of tissue that obeys a set of rules imposed by some biological imperative, but whose plasticity in size, shape and operation is sufficiently free as to give rise to all the unique personalities with which we interact.
Is that marvelous, or is that marvelous?