The sign above the door reads Prefrontal Cortex. You’re doing admin in good light, until something flashes past the window and you’re off outside. An empty street, road name blank, a litter of sleep-curled neurons stir and blink. You wonder why you left your desk. A delivery note, some returned post? You head back inside and, carousel-style, the scene has spun to The Generation Game with its conveyor belt of objects you must name against the clock. Quick, pick them up: the cuddly toy, an unpaid bill, that prescription slip – before the belt speeds up and your bandwidth snaps. You try to tag the nearest item with a Post-It that won’t stick, a pen with no ink. Then you’re whizzing down the cerebrum’s corridors to the control room’s switchboard and its tangle of threads, but the belt won’t stop and more items get lost through the ever-looming luggage flap. You spot your parietal lobe’s sewing kit, thumb at its stiff clasp. It spits a brief panic of twine and you’re threading whatever you can grasp on the nearest synaptic cord, until the knot slips and, like beads, they drop. Now you’re left crawling on memory’s floor, not knowing what you’re looking for.