It felt strange to have been away from this place of imagining and thinking for so long. So long was three days. In reality, I was still somewhere else, physically and mentally. Mentally I was arriving at the destination, on a couch, that had become my mental home, so to speak, several times a week. I was on a bus, fifty or so miles north of Seattle. Why was I writing these sentences now, and not ten minutes earlier or later? The bus was passing a town from my childhood. We were passing it. I was passing it. My eyes were looking and my heart was aching. These last words surprised me. Darkness would arrive soon. The sun had set. The mountains in the distance felt like old friends. We used to drive toward those mountains. It was a different we back then. My parents wouldn’t drive toward those mountains again. One of us could drive my father. He might not remember much. These sentences were painful to write. It was not a happy writing experience. The bus moved along toward its destination. I’d arrived at my mental one. This state of mind was my mental couch. I was home, at that moment, fifty or so miles from Seattle. Physical and mental became one. I was sad. The memories hurt. Life was real. This was my mental home, for this moment.