Phi

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My brain gives birth to what is real, he thought, to the bloom of the bulrush, the flakes of the pinecone, to the berry of the juniper. It gives birth to the drone bee, the sea grass, to every object large and small, to the meadow nearby, and to the distant peaks. It burns, it glitters. And it has no name. It has no name but I.
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“The vast cerebral cortex and the precious thalamus—the small bed of neurons where the cortex crouches—the entire corticothalamic system has been destroyed,” explained Frick. “The cortex, you see,” he said, peering at Galileo, “is a sheet as large and thin as this bedcloth—and just as convoluted. And the cloth is truly an immense forest, which covers every ridge and valley of the brain.” As in his dream, thought Galileo. “Each tree is a nerve cell,” Frick went on, “and just as trees are densely packed in groves, so neurons often band together into groups, each containing maybe one hundred of them. These small groups of neurons, you see, are the building blocks of the brain and send signals to each other at great distance through thin wires.”
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injuries can cause great havoc, especially near the middle, deep inside the cerebrum. That region is like a hub, governing the traffic among all the others, and if you interrupt the traffic, then naturally the edifice of consciousness collapses,”
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