226 W37th Street, New York, N.Y.

This is an open letter to my unconscious mind.
Let's get to the point here. I don't understand you and you don't speak my language. The images are terrifying, but that's it. I'm missing the point. Let's try again.

Remember the time I screamed for an half hour straight? Man, that freaked everybody out. It was fun. We were communicating directly then. Boy, were you pissed. I knew it and knew I could help. Since then, though, the day to day pressures have made you seem distant. I know you don't care where I park at the mall, or what I eat for dinner, but these are issues I have to deal with. We've drifted apart, somewhat, over the years, but not so far, I think, that we can't mend this little rift. So, here goes. I promise to pay attention to you. I won't ignore you anymore, if only you'll stop throwing all this shit up into my face. I'll try to be more perceptive and intuitive if you try not to be so heavy-handed. We can do this. We can calm this down and work together a little better. By the way, I have no idea what the fascination with W37th Street has to do with me, but I'm working on it. And the dog kennel? That was genius.

Jesus, it's like talking to a child. Oh. Did you hear that? Uh oh.