Two chairs, a table, a clock. On the table, a clean pad of white lined paper and a black ballpoint pen. I am supposed to write my thoughts, they say. The last time I did that, they explained to me how I was wrong in almost every conceivable way. The time before that, I was forced into this institution by my mother, who somehow managed to escape the subterranean maze to find me screaming in the streets.

Above, on the white ceiling, fluorescent lights. They must not want me to get any sleep in this place-at least until they turn the lights off. The luminescence flows into every corner of the room (all four of them), permitting no unexplored boundaries, no evasive experiences. Mysteries no longer exist, they say. You should not waste your time trying to find what is already known by modern science.

A bed. Not uncomfortable, for I am used to living ruggedly. But, as I said, it is impossible to sleep here due to the glaringly unnatural fluorescent lighting and the air conditioning, set at an uncomfortable sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit. I think they do this to get me to submit-to their ideas and their will. I won't. I can't.

The door is knocked three times, then opened. The knock is intended to give me some sense of importance, but I do not need to acknowledge it before Doctor Wazisneme strolls in with his reading glasses and clipboard.

How are you doing, he states, taking a seat in front of me.

Very well, if this were Antarctica in the summer, I mutter.

Didn't I tell you sarcasm would get you nowhere? He did.

Now, where did we leave off yesterday? The good Doctor knows very well where we left off, but again, I must be given some sense of dignity.

I told you about the beef people of Canada.

Ah, yes. Supposedly, the frozen beef granted eternal life; am I correct?

Yes, I answered, tired of this useless banter.

And the town, what was it called? Eh?

Yes, that's what the name of the town was, Eh. Wazisneme grins, as if I had just given the wrong answer in class and he was about to embark on an hour-long lecture on the correct answer, just to spite me.

Only because I care about you as a patient, I took the liberty of looking up this town, Eh. Can you guess what I found? I remain silent. I could guess, but it would only serve to discredit me.

Nothing. No such town exists. I searched through every Canadian map, and there was no town called Eh. Why am I supposed to believe what you say?

Because the town would not have been kept secret for all these years if it were on a map, I answer bitterly.

But, according to cartographers far more educated than yourself, more educated than myself in their field, claim Eh does not exist! It is a figment of your imagination, an extrapolation of your desire to live forever through the fame and glory of exploration, he said. I know this could not be true. I had been there. I had seen the beef people of Canada and left Mary Goround there to live out her eternal life. He tries to break my will, but it won't work.

Doctor Wazisneme scribbles something on his clipboard and proceeds with the interrogation. Please, tell me what happened after you got home from that town, Eh.

I comply with his request and tell him about my journeys in the underground tunnels of Ami Florida and the subsequent revelations I had in the Legendary Underground Spam Factory. Not that he will believe me; he most certainly will not. However, I still derive some pleasure of having people know of my amazing adventures, no matter who they are ... well, maybe not my mother.

Throughout the recollection, the Doctor doodles on his clipboard and nods occasionally and even interjects a knowing Hmm... occasionally.

This was soon before we found you and took you in for treatment, correct? he asks.

Yes, it was. The Doctor nods.

Exactly how clear is the adventure you had in your mind? Can you remember specific details? Smells? Tastes? Textures? More than just simple sight and sound?

I can, somewhat, I tell him. My ability to remember is blurred; I know they are slowly poisoning me with the poor excuse for food they serve here. I would even take the treacherous pickled Spam over this slop.

Do you realize that it is very possible, indeed, likely that all of this was just a dream-a fantasy you created to satisfy latent desires?

It was real. It was all real. I was there. My mother was in the tunnels. Why don't you ask her?

Your mother was perfectly safe and normal until she found you raving in the middle of the road. She knows nothing of what you speak, and for good reason.

Then why do you think I remember all this? Perhaps I can poke holes in his logic and get myself a ticket out of here.

My theory is that you suffer from a sensual manifestation of your hidden attraction towards your mother; perhaps you recognize the term Oedipus complex?

Excuse me? I reply. I have heard enough to know what he is talking about, and I do not like it at all.

Permit me to explain exactly what I think your "adventures" mean. Your escape into the tunnels, only to run into your mother again, then subsequently fleeing: an obvious representation of your desire to escape your mother, only to be drawn to her repeatedly. The Spam .... is a symbol of the flesh, soft and pink, and the pickles only you discover within, well...

You can stop right there, I shout to the Doctor, because I not some mother-loving wacko who makes up entire portions of his life! What I have experienced is real, and my mother ... well, I'm not even going to get into that.

Calm down, please. I am not telling you anything you don't already know deep inside, he lies.

Let me out of this place, right now!

You know I cannot do that until you are fit to rejoin society.

Then get out of my room! The room really isn't even mine, but now I need it to be.

Very well. You do not seem of the proper temperament to continue this session, anyway. Good afternoon, Mr. Quartzenkofferloferous, he says with mock politeness as he steps out.

Good afternoon, Doctor Wazisneme, and good riddance. I know I am sane. He is the one who needs help. In fact, this whole world needs help if they cannot accept me for who I am and what I do. I am Bob Quartzenkofferloferous, and the world is crazy.