Hillman is doing something precise here that is easy to miss in the elegance of the move. The restriction he names — analysis confined to human subjectivity — is not merely a methodological limitation. It is itself a symptom, the trace of a long pneumatic habit that locates soul inside the skin and leaves the world outside as dead matter available for use. When soul contracts to interior, the table, the city street, the pharmaceutical bottle, the song playing in a waiting room all become psychologically mute. They stand there, but they do not speak. Hillman's deliberate misreading of *mundi* — reading the genitive "of the world" as the locative "in the world" — refuses that contraction. It is not an expansion of scope so much as a refusal to honor the boundary that never should have been drawn.

What this opens practically is that your symptoms do not end at your body, and neither do the images that matter. The image that has hold of you may be living equally in an object, a place, a professional role, a building you walk past each morning. Depth work that treats only the inside of the skull has already conceded too much to a story about where soul is permitted to reside.