Organs, like my heart, beat to a different drum. Organs, such as my brain, compose entire worlds on the strings of dendrites. Organs, my friend, are the instruments of the imagination. Their spittle-- my words. Mere attempts to encompass the immensity of intensity of the mass of knowledge crammed into a mere three pounds of squishy, electrically charged storms of thought, with limits ways to express, none of which do it adequate justice.
An organ, is an organ, is an organ, is an organ-ism. Welcome to mine.