As a passionate lover of bagels, I know a thing or two about a bagel's wants and needs. They don't like to be burned, they prefer a light golden brown color. They need not be smothered in cream cheese, but caressed ever so gently by a knife that spreads cheesy creamy goodness evenly.
In other words, my morning bagel, not that great.
According to the Times, we subsequently act out the story of our lives that fills our minds. Apparently, if this personal screenplay that inhabits your brain is in the third person, you are a well-adjusted happy chap who is doing just fine.
It's a great article to read, I'm just not sure it is true. These days, my day to day more than pales in comparison to the visions that I imagine my life to be.
And until I figure out this mp3 bit, here is a little ditty by the lovely Feist that I've had in my head for the last day or two
"There’s a limit to your love
Like a waterfall in slow motion
Like a map with no ocean
There’s a limit to your love."