"Remember—I'm not paying to listen to your dreams, you're paying me." Her voice is stringent, but sensuous, a honey-lemon cough drop. "Is that my only option?" I ask, hoping to get on her sliding scale. "Nope," she says cheerfully. "I could teach you to listen to your own dreams. But that will take a while—what do you say?" After centuries of leeches and lobotomies, alchemy and the hangman's noose, we were getting somewhere! I was finally starting to see it—the sheer over everything, even my own eyes. No matter I had woven it with hands helpless to do otherwise. On mountaintops and in coffee shops, monks were levitating in the lotus position; The Book of the Dead was playing on movie screens all over town. The moment hushed, an orchestra settling before the start of a symphony. I closed my eyes to let my ears take over. My body was oscillating on wavelengths owls could hear, every atom vibrating in its orbit, utterly at home. "Hallelujah," I whisper to my therapist as we buckle down to begin the hard work at hand.