“Cigarette, Ken?”
“Thanks.... Look, Bob.” The two men had drawn closer together in the last weeks. Morrissey no longer addressed his Chief of Staff with the former “Doctor.” “I’ve been collating the facts of your case, and I think I’ve got at the root of the trouble. Do you want to hear my diagnosis?”
“Candidly, I don’t,” Bruno said, closing his eyes and inhaling smoke. “I’d prefer to forget it. But I know I can’t. That would be psychically ruinous.”
“You had a cyclic self-containing dream—I suppose you could call it that. You dreamed you were dreaming you were dreaming. You know what your trouble is?”
“Well?”
“You’re not sure you’re awake now.”
“Oh, I’m sure enough,” Bruno said. “Most of the time.”
“You’ve got to be sure all the time. Or else make yourself believe that it doesn’t matter whether you’re dreaming or waking.”
“Doesn’t matter! Ken! To know that everything may melt away under my feet at any time, and to think that doesn’t matter! That’s impossible!”
“Then you’ve got to be sure you’re awake. Those hallucinations you had are over. Weeks have passed.”