My mental home seems far away. I know it’s right here, right now. A week has passed since I wrote down a dream and allowed it to speak to me through the day. Minutes pass. Work and the rest of daily reality don’t understand my inner time. Inner time equals subjective life. To remain in contact with my own body and my own mind often feels impossible to achieve for more than minutes at a time. I’m trying to do so as I do two things simultaneously: write these sentences and imagine myself on the couch in my psychoanalyst’s office, where subjective life becomes life. I imagine myself uttering the following words on Sarah’s couch: uncertainty overwhelms me, which is crazy because the specific uncertainty is a small matter. Words keep coming as I imagine myself in her downtown Seattle office, a block from Pike Place Market, struggling to say whatever comes to mind, and I continue, the feeling of being alive growing with each sentence that I utter. This subjective experience feels as if it were a dream, as if I were asleep and having the psychotic experience that is a dream. Craziness has brought me home. I can tolerate subjective life, for minutes at a time, sometimes for much longer, sometimes for seconds. In my imagination, seconds remain of my time on the couch, and before getting to my feet, I hear myself say that on some days making contact with my subjective life is much harder than I realize. Fortunately, today my imagination has made such contact possible.