This is my couch. I didn’t say that aloud, did I? I can’t glance at my psychoanalyst, seated behind me. I’m lying on a couch, and not on any couch. This is the psychoanalytic one. What does that mean? According to what I’ve read online and heard on podcasts, few patients lie on the analytic couch nowadays. But that’s only in this country, I remind myself. Psychoanalysis is alive and well in Argentina and in France. This is my process. These sentences of mine disturb me. They don’t make sense, or do they? My analyst asked me a question, or did he? This is too much to think about or imagine at once. I imagine sitting up and leaving the couch. I don’t want to. All of this has come to me on the couch. Why would I want to leave it? Speak, I tell myself. He’s waiting patiently, behind you, for a word, a sentence, anything verbal. Something comes to me. I speak it. The fifty-minute hour continues. What should I do?