An idea flashed through her brain and left a frown on her face.
From what I've learned his entire brain structure is distorted.
Why that picture settled into her brain, she couldn't say.
I have a terminal brain tumor.
While Howie, between his brain damage, operations and lengthy coma created a rare combination of mental soup, could we say with any certainty that his ability was absolutely unique to him?
I mentioned a brain scan; you'd think I'd suggested a lobotomy.
"No brain tumors," she replied.
Biking was usually Dean's thinking time, but his brain felt overused lately and had opted for a day off, restricting his thoughts to nothing more pressing than the next hill.
No doubt he knew he was being manipulated, but his brain was foggy enough that he wasn't sure what to do about it.
It operates on manipulation of brain waves but only on highly intelligent individuals.
It was then that my slowly reacting brain, flowing like cold molasses began to function, more than a gerbil driven wheel.
She refused to give in to the nagging question of brain damage.
It was hard to imagine she had a tumor in her brain the half the size of her fist.
Hallucinations, fate or some sort of mania brought on by her brain tumor, she wasn't going to wait for the Grand Canyon.
She was ransacking her brain for a good save when he reached down and grabbed the bucket.
That was when the logical part of her brain jerked her back to reality.
In 1872 he was promoted commander at what was an exceptionally early age, but he died on the 17th of December 1874 of brain fever.
Now a bullet through my brain-- that's all that's left me!
A bullet through my brain is the only thing left me--not singing! his thoughts ran on.
"That's because the brain is the strangest tool of the body," Quinn answered.
Could the fact that Howie's brain waves are somehow different after his lengthy coma and all the operations he endured be effected by what you were doing?
"You mean my scrambled brain waves," Howie said with a smile.
All I'm trying to do is get a handle on why his brain is doing this to him.
A thousand thought and memories shuffled through my brain like black jack deck.
I, uh, made a deal with Darkyn a few days ago for him to remove my brain tumor.
He tucked the information in the back of his brain as he entered the store and purchased his Fat Tire Ale.
Tests revealed normal brain function, and there was no indication of any permanent damage.
The doctor said they could find no reason for him to stay in a coma, except the possibility of brain damage from lack of oxygen or blood loss.
Still, she was beginning to have a bad feeling that he might have brain damage.
Gazing at the obvious mass in her brain, she knew the results were bad, but were they worse?
She deserved the brain tumor.
Her brain tumor never seemed like a blessing before now.
Though the power of mind manipulation was far from brain surgery, he might also know how to help Deidre.
He couldn't have the tumor – or half her brain missing – when he revived her.
I'm kinda tired of having my brain cut open.
It looked like a cat scan of a brain, but it wasn't hers.
Other thoughts were skittering through her brain, those that reminded her she was no longer on her own territory and he hadn't told her something she hadn't heard before.
He admitted none of the mental scenarios circling his tired brain made a lick of sense.
She clutched his wrists, the logical side of her brain preparing to remove his hands from her face, the emotional side wishing he would repeat the kiss.
He tapped his personal net implant and murmured "Angel" to direct the implant in his brain to contact her.
She'd removed her personal identifiers, hacked into the government's tracking mainframe to deactivate the implant in her brain, and changed into the black tactical uniform Elise brought her over her civilian grays.
"Good. We were worried you'd have some brain damage," the woman replied cheerfully.
Maybe Dean's sleep-deprived brain was going in circles but something wasn't clicking, and it bothered him the rest of the night.
With his brain still churning from the phone conversation, it took sometime before his eyes focused on a penciled circle on one of the articles.
The emerging brightness of the new day, while inviting, did nothing to sort out the tangle of thoughts crowding his brain like the line of a snarled fishing reel.
The Other's brain told him otherwise, that it wasn't entirely certain what happened.
When the conquest of the city seemed inevitable, a great "brain drain" of scholars, artists, teachers, theologians, and the wealthy emigrated to Western Europe, especially to Italy.
In some twentieth-century science fiction visions of the future, humans created friendly robot sidekicks with data storage capacity and computational speed the human brain lacked.
One thing is certain, the language was ineffaceably stamped upon my brain, though for a long time no one knew it, least of all myself.
"Toleration," she said once, when she was visiting her friend Mrs. Laurence Hutton, "is the greatest gift of the mind; it requires the same effort of the brain that it takes to balance oneself on a bicycle."
His success convinced him that language can be conveyed through type to the mind of the blind-deaf child, who, before education, is in the state of the baby who has not learned to prattle; indeed, is in a much worse state, for the brain has grown in years without natural nourishment.
If she could see and hear, I suppose she would get rid of her superfluous energy in ways which would not, perhaps, tax her brain so much, although I suspect that the ordinary child takes his play pretty seriously.
For a whole evening she will sit at the table writing whatever comes into her busy brain; and I seldom find any difficulty in reading what she has written.
Or perchance, at evening, I hear him in his stable blowing off the superfluous energy of the day, that he may calm his nerves and cool his liver and brain for a few hours of iron slumber.
While he was thinking one thing in his brain, I was endeavoring to divine his thought in mine.
These he peddles still, prompting God and disgracing man, bearing for fruit his brain only, like the nut its kernel.
While England endeavors to cure the potato-rot, will not any endeavor to cure the brain-rot, which prevails so much more widely and fatally?
Something was lacking in them, they were not clear, they were too one-sidedly personal and brain-spun.
She had to eat, sleep, think, speak, weep, work, give vent to her anger, and so on, merely because she had a stomach, a brain, muscles, nerves, and a liver.
He offered her a choice: to cure the inoperable brain tumor killing her or to outright kill her before she declined, whichever outcome she preferred.
In it was her bucket list, a list of things she hoped to do before she died from the terminal brain tumor she no longer possessed.
If you had half a brain, you.d have helped Rhyn and killed Sasha.
He wracked his brain for excuses that would be plausible.