Nothing comes to mind. For ten minutes nothing has come. The screen and keyboard are ready. I read and I took notes. Then I expected words to appear. Nothing has appeared. Silence surrounds me. I glance at the time on the screen. I glance at the bookshelves across the room. Perhaps another book would help me. Moments ago an image came to me. It surprises me. The search for something to write about has ended. I’m no longer here at my desk. I’ve travelled, in my imagination, a distance that would take me around forty minutes on foot. In an instant, I’m in a familiar place, where in reality I lie on a couch a few times each week. It’s Sunday. My imagination brings me another surprise. My psychoanalyst observes me from his chair behind the couch. I don’t want to lie down, or do I? Moments after the question arrives, a desk appears before me, and my laptop too. I must write all this down before it disappears from my mind. The psychoanalyst will wait for me, in his chair, won’t he? The images have made it onto the screen, in words. I’m at my desk, this real one, even in my imagination. It’s a cloudy, cold, quiet Sunday afternoon. On Tuesday I’ll walk for around forty minutes to that familiar place with the couch. Reality hasn’t disappeared.