I thought the problem was behind me. Or I didn’t recognize it as one. That would come later. On a Thursday, I arrived at my psychoanalyst’s office at the regular time. As I walked toward the couch, something felt irregular, as if Martin, standing alongside his chair, asked me about my morning. I thought about mentioning what I’d imagined, and almost did so once I was on the couch, before other things came to mind and I spoke about one thing and then another. Thirty or forty minutes passed before an interruption occurred. It was a psychological event. Suddenly, in mid sentence, I sat up on the couch, without turning my body to glance at Martin behind me. I felt incapable of doing something. This thought comes to me, during the act of writing, while I sit at my desk, awaiting the next word and sentence to arrive in finished form. I imagine that I felt unfinished, perhaps naked, without clothes, as I sat on the couch, no longer lying down. During those seconds, in my upright position, I became the problem, in my own eyes. Martin, seated behind me, waited in silence.