The intuitive brain is like an oversized retarded child playing with a bauble and mumbling incoherent phrases. It acts like a baby, it wants its own way in everything, it requires perpetual attention, it is unreliable and completely unreasonable. But within that moronic child lives the brilliant composer of dreams. Dreams are arrangements of poetically perfect, preciously interlocking, self-referential symbols.
There is a quality of perfect creation in a dream. That perfect poetic creativity is the work of the little genius, or the "little professor," sitting in the intuitive brain. In other words, the intuitive brain is the home of an amorphic moron who is selfish, moody and irresponsible but who, on certain occasions, is inspired with flashes of brilliant and unassailably right thought, flawlessly appropriate action, and sublime clarity of vision. Intuition is capable of inspiring one with instant truth, with absolute and perfect clarity. It is ironic that intuition, the source of inspiration and genius, should spend most of its time behaving "like a slob."