Humans are so fantastically fragile. When things are going the way they should, we’re immortal. But tiny things can go wrong: microscopic brain things that set everything off. Perhaps what’s more remarkable about our fragility, is that we learn to cope–to endure and work around and sometimes cure the tiny things that set our bodies and minds into chaos. We make ritual of pain. The pain is innocent. It can’t help itself. We can only help ourselves–we can only name things and liken them to other things and try to understand them. And the things we don’t understand–the things we have a history of not understanding–those things have a way of not changing. The migraine headache: Levy puts this thing–this ailment–that we haven’t found a way to figure out, into remarkable clarity. He’s a writer, and a thinker. This is like the weather, it’s like fear, and every injury you can imagine. None of this is truth, of course, because none is the absolute experience. But, there’s a great deal of understanding here–a great deal of acceptance–Levy shows us the ropes, and we all hope they never seem familiar.