"Matt," she responds, a smile in her voice. Here's where it got trickier. Each mind was different, each one with their own defense mechanisms. They were created by the subconscious and by the person themselves. How they defined themselves, how they thought others saw them. Like an abstract piece of art that looked normal, was only that way in explanation.

She shifts closer in an instant, faster than the blink of an eye. "We," Zatanna corrects him as she places a hand on his shoulder, as real as he can imagine it to be, "We're going to fix it." She doesn't mean to deliberately be obtuse, but there aren't words that can explain it, not really. She allows her hand to steadily move down his arm, tips of her gloved fingers occasionally flicking the fabric there until she reaches his hand. Palm lightly pressed against his own, eventually entwining her fingers as she pulls him toward her.

She's done this more times than she'd like to admit and this part is far too familiar, hauntingly so. A pathway lights up, full of twists and turns. It's much too plain, much too boring. A few steps forward and the rest is illuminated, perfectly cliché, M.C. Escher-esque foreground, morphing out of that beautiful landscape he'd created for himself earlier. One step at a time.

It seemed most people's minds went to Escher (though his was more Convex and Concave than Relativity), somehow. Like that was the limit of the normal human mind when it came to the impossible. She didn't want to think what it could do if it was capable of being stretched further past the limit. "For now? We climb." And like that, there are stairs.