Fortunately, this is my first time in an airport terminal in years. As I write this sentence, it comes to me that six years ago was the last time I waited for a flight. I probably had a beer or two in a bar and then walked around the terminal, waiting for images and thoughts to arrive. This time I decide to write these sentences, which I sense are leading me somewhere. As if out of nowhere, images from yesterday demand representation in words. Maybe I should call them memories. What I did yesterday afternoon for fifty minutes, while I lay on a couch, was similar to this exercise of writing words on a page. I spoke in a psychoanalyst’s office, in Martin’s consulting room, in a space that has become familiar to me in many ways. Now I write – I almost wrote speak – whatever comes to mind, and hopefully no one sits behind me, listening to or reading these words. Perhaps there’s a similarity between the anxiety I experienced yesterday while trying to speak without controlling what I was saying and the uncertainty that this kind of free-associative writing involves, which might be an inner certainty that I’m giving form to states of mind. It might be the only certainty I experience today, which would be more than enough for me.