These sentences originate in my imagination, don’t they? I know where I’m seated, what day and time it is, don’t I? Sometimes writing every day causes me to confuse inner time and space with the outer ones. Causes of things intimidate me. What causes what? I’m afraid of becoming angry with someone tomorrow. I imagine it happening while four of us have a beer in a bar downtown, before the rest of the evening. We’ll probably have dinner there too. It’s so simple to imagine that these are facts, in my mind, as if tomorrow were yesterday. An inner voice, which comes with a familiar image, asks why facts can’t exist in my imagination. I want to rewrite the opening sentences of this paragraph, imagining that the voice and image of my psychoanalyst are with me, in my mind, silent, as he often is in his office while I struggle with my mind on the couch. I almost wrote that I struggle in my mind or that my mind struggles with me on the couch. The four of us could enjoy our beers without me becoming angry or frustrated. Are you satisfied, I imagine asking this inner figure as I finish the pint of IPA. Tomorrow night feels like the present, and it is, in my imagination, or a psychoanalyst might say, in my unconscious mind. A reply to my question arrives from within: you tell me. For a moment I’d forgotten where all of this was happening. It’s not over yet. The words will stop coming when they’re done with me.