Blee-blee-bleeping saturates my earplugs. I cannot speak or shift my head a millimetre. I am not even supposed to move my eyes. Lying here in a narrow tube, I am isolated except for a mirror lilted above my face. Reflected in it I see a computer screen with a grid of criss-crossing lines. That screen is my link to the researchers in the next room, who are gawking at pixelated slices of my brain as a functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI) scanner yanks them out of my head, 14 per second.
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