I woke up this morning and my laptop seemed to find me as soon as I’d prepared coffee. I knew what it was asking of me. Yet at five in the morning I wasn’t certain of anything except that I needed caffeine to help me read or write words. Words were on my mind, and images too. I felt as if I wanted to record a dream on paper, but I knew what sort of text would create itself on my laptop screen: a fragment of a vignette or maybe a complete one. My imagination was awake. Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung were alive in my mind, in an image of them walking together in the countryside, which seemed to demand representation in words. The image was so real that for a moment I felt as if I’d drunk three or four coffees. With a cup of coffee in one hand, I walked to my writing room and sat down before the laptop that I imagined had been waiting for me to have this inner experience. I felt I was entering a state of mind that as a writer I was dependent on in order to work, a meditative one, in which I became part of, but not in charge of, the process of creation. These sentences wrote themselves, with my help, before I’d finished that first cup of morning coffee.