My brain does wish to entertain a different sort of knowledge than my body. Ambitious of its own accord it has invited texts and images and private jokes to stay like perpetual house guests, littering the paths of my thought, folding out the sofa bed every night, laying down foam mattresses and sleeping bags in the furnished basement of my imagination. They crowd together at the breakfast table every morning and vie for my attention.

Spinoza argues with the electric company and Judith Butler works in the bedroom at trying to dislodge the knowledge that:

Once there was a little girl who had a little curl on the center of her forehead, and when she was good she was very very good and when she was bad, she was horrid.