These sentences are my form of autobiographical fiction. Even before I became passionate about the writings of Jung and Freud two decades ago, I knew that much of what I wrote in my journal every day was fantasy. This is a record, as accurate as possible, of what I said this morning minutes after arriving on my psychoanalyst’s couch. I’m in a coffee shop a block from Martin’s office in downtown Seattle, and as I finish this sentence I glance outside at Puget Sound in the distance. Another sentence comes to me. I’m trying to give form to something, which somehow I know is an impossible task. Writing these sentences, even with the help of coffee, reminds me of what I finished doing not that many minutes ago up in that fourth floor office, speaking without knowing what I would utter next. I want to stop writing. I’ve written enough sentences. My analyst stopped speaking. In fact, Martin didn’t say much during the hour. Part of me wants to believe we’re the same person and assume that if he stopped speaking at some moment during the session that I must stop writing right now. Yet words keep appearing. Martin and I are separate from each other. Part of me prefers to forget this, to deny it, without becoming conscious of forgetting or denying anything. These sentences have been difficult to write. I’m tired after speaking on the couch. I want to make sense of what I said on the couch. Reality and fantasy are both here to be discovered. The unconscious speaks. I must be willing to listen, to listen without attempting to understand. Understanding comes on its own, both in spoken and in written words.