Ah, the human nervous system: a delicate, spaghetti-like monolith upon which the entire façade of civilization rattles and clinks. For centuries, mankind has attempted to repair nerves with the grace of a raccoon pawing through electrical wires. But now — just as the last shreds of our dignity falter beneath an onslaught of avocado-impaled fingers and the ceaseless shriek of artisanal woodworking failures — France, that ancient bulwark of existential surrender and cheese, has hurled forth a solution. Enter Tissium: harbinger of goo. Not content with abandoning the planet to its fate of numb fingertips and eternal pins-and-needles, this Gallic startup concocted a biotech slime so potent, so unctuously adhesive, even Sisyphus would weep at its stickiness. Imagine: a bioengineered phlegm derived from the basic building blocks of croissants (or possibly just regular human goo-stuff), so loyal to your medical staff that it only solidifies under the baleful gaze of an operating-room flashlight. A liquid splint for your sundered neurons! Can you not hear the trumpets of the apocalypse? Once upon a time, surgeons would stitch nerve endings together like mismatched socks, squinting through magnifiers, their trembling hands clutching micro-thread like the last strands of their sanity. But Tissium has come to destroy this ancient tradition — or "upgrade the workflow," as their overlords prefer to say. The goo pours forth, gushing over the raw machinery of the human body's electric cabling, holding it together with the gentle persistence of a bureaucrat at a parking ticket appeals desk. Healing, at last, with the sheer inevitability of rising student debt. Of course, there were experiments — the sort that would make Dr. Frankenstein weep in envy. A handful of volunteers (possibly volunteers, possibly just people who slipped in an abundance of French butter) surrendered their hands to the goo. Miraculously, one by one, nerves reawakened. "It is as if the tips of my fingers remembered the sun," whispered one (maybe). The surgeons, struck dumb, could only nod: sensation had returned. Taste, pain, texture, heat — all came rolling back. Is the world ready? Should we, in fact, repair our nerves? If mankind is doomed to experience ever more sensation, what price will we pay for this luxury? The French, undeterred, have funneled so many euro-doubloons into Tissium’s coffers it is said the Loire runs thick with promises of future goo-wealth. Europe itself, through its clandestine League of Nervous Bankers, is all-in. If society falls, at least everyone will feel it. This infernal concoction is not merely content to target nerves: it seeks to ooze into every crevice of medical need. Is your hernia in crisis? Pour on the goo. Need a heart patched up before the next collapse of fiat currency? Prepare the bio-jelly. The future is adhesive and, like all things postmodern, French. And so, as surgeons worldwide uncap the vials and peer dubiously at their luridly sticky contents, a question looms in the collective cosmic mind: is salvation to be found in polymers? Or is this but one more sign that the singularity is nigh — that soon the sum of human experience will be one long, continuous glob of existential dread, held together by the paraphernalia of science, doomed to feel, at last, everything?