I thought I could get by. All of my thoughts could fit in a fly. (And there still would be room for its flight instructions.) In its buzzing patterns about my head, I saw the dizzy mirror of my world. It made me smile.
Why didn't it occur to me that the fly could simply drop dead? And there all my thoughts would slumber, forever. Dessicating. (Like the landlord, poor chap.) I stared into the windowsill, and gently touched the upturned legs.
Another fly came and touched down on my nose. Then it bumped against the windowglass, disturbing my mourning. Damn you, fool fly, you can't escape that way. Then another came to join him. It occured to me that the room was simply full of flies. I laughed to myself, "I'm running a veritable fly factory here."
I stopped myself. I nearly dropped to one knee. Then, I went ahead and did, for dramatic effect. I was having another idea. I decided to sit awhile and draw up plans. I moved the meter reader to the floor where he might be more comfortable, and placed his arm across him, lest he lose it. With a nub of pencil and the back of my unpaid phone bill, I drew up the plans.
"Let's see, according to these calculations, not only is there enough room in this fly's brain for all my thoughts, but all my revisions as well. And if I use multiple flies to store the cogitations, then I could have multiple copies. If one should drop, then there are countless others. Yes, yes. The benefit is that not only would I never lose any of my musings, but in case I should decide that the previous state of my worldview were superior to any further pondering, I can rollback to the previous, my flies performing clever feats of logical aerobatics for me."
Now I have a cloud of flies, humming about my head with perfect redundancy, beautiful symmetry. I'll save you the gorey details as to how they propagate my memories, save that it is a simple, basic transaction, as elemental as the spontaneous generation of matter. We all learned about that in degrade school.