A therapy session ends at dusk in a high-rise office, but the scene keeps slipping into the surreal. The setting sun drops past a psychiatrist’s “left brain” as much as past the Cascade Range, and the doctor dismisses anyone who claims to know how the brain produces emotions. Just then, window washers appear outside on the 17th floor. Patient and psychiatrist look at them; they look back. The patient’s farewell promise is odd and haunting: he will call especially if he feels like a blackbird flying over ice-fields or starts singing obscure anthems in stores. Then the session dissolves into ordinary motions—handshake, elevator, descent. The psychiatrist is left unsure whether the windows were even cleaned. The mood is wry, detached, and quietly strange, mixing clinical routine with dreamlike imagery. Clarity, like clean windows, has to wait until morning.
Psychic Windows Washed — Summary
Red sun dropped below a psychiatrist’s left brain, not to mention the Cascade Range. The psychiatrist’s opinions rose: “Computers aren’t anything, and no one knows how the brain produces emotions. Anyone who claims to know is lying.”
On their tiny platform, window washers dropped into view, 17th floor. Patient and psychiatrist looked at them. They looked back.
The patient promised to call the psychiatrist, especially if the patient were to feel like a blackbird flying over ice-fields or to sing obscure anthems in retail stores.
The psychiatrist and the patient shook hands. Dusk now. The window washers winched themselves down. The patient took the elevator. The psychiatrist could not tell whether the windows were cleaner. That would have to wait until morning.