Thanks, Lisa, I appreciate what you're getting at. Don't worry, I'm still marvellously depressed. The Wellbutrin has done nothing more than make me irritable so far.

The morning after seeing the ghosts, my dad and I had breakfast at a diner near my grandmother's house that as God is my witness, I'd never seen before. During breakfast, my dad exclaimed, Bhodisattva! for no good reason. Understandably, that went to my head.

After that, we went to the Masonic temple on my prompting where I wandered through the grounds looking for a secret entrance that would be unlocked by the key I had discovered the night before (I wish I could find the thing! It's this weird plastic tool that I found in my grandmother's bedroom). The groundskeeper let us through the back gate based on the confidence I had acquired from having "the key," and my dad was impressed-- without knowing what I was thinking, he said
"you had the key to the temple." Good old dad.

I was pretty happy with myself by the time I got to New York. Basically, what I had concluded was: my study of archetypes had opened my eyes to a side of the world that I never knew existed. Whether it was supernatural or merely in some liminal space, I had clearly stumbled upon an extraordinary new set of abilities.

This hubris only strengthened when I arrived home, and Mr. Thermometer came marching up the sidewalk with a suitcase and a guitar. I immediately set about showing him the neighborhood. We hit a bar in Guillaumesburg that was decorated for Easter. "Listen, Mr. Thermometer," I said urgently. "We need to save New York..."