What I imagine myself doing feels impossible. I could write on paper right now. It could become a creative act in reality. This is reality, too, in my mind, which feels as if I’m in a dream. Maybe I’m in a waking one. I’m also speaking, and a listener sits out of sight. I’m in the spotlight. A Lacanian might say that my words are in the spotlight. A Freudian might listen for derivatives of aggression or libido. These fantasies seem real to me. I could record them on paper, now in the moment, on this couch, in this consulting room on the fourth floor, at 11:34 am (I glance at the clock beyond the couch). This would be possible if I’d brought pen and paper with me to this psychoanalytic session. Writing on the couch isn’t permitted in psychoanalysis. Is that a fantasy? I ask my psychoanalyst this question. He finally hears my voice. He remains silent. This is my hour. I speak about these things that have passed through my mind. Maybe that’s what this session is about: my mind.