I left his office in a hurry. The couch was forgotten the moment I walked out the door. Or was it? I hurried home, where I worked, and finished editing an article that I imagined should have been in my editor’s email inbox hours earlier. My imagination had also been busy on the analytic couch, where, this phrase came to me, magic sometimes happened, when I found myself in a sort of meditative state of mind. Things were forgotten on the couch. I remembered. I forgot. I spoke. I remained silent. I doubted. And I was sure of what I said. Moments after finishing editing the article, I realized that the work had taken much less time than I’d thought it would. I remembered that I’d hurried from Martin’s consulting room. I said too much or too little during the hour. Speaking the truth was painful. My mind became painful. I wasn’t supposed to edit my thoughts in psychoanalysis. What was my job on the couch? An unwelcome sentence came to me: to experience and suffer my own pain.