Fiction makes the impossible an ordinary daily event. I wish I would’ve thought of the particular possibility that I’m writing about before. I would attend a psychotherapy workshop. It could be an imaginative way to spend a Saturday morning. No one in the room would know me. I would arrive with an open mind. Open and mind seems an interesting way to think about the phrase. Maybe my mind would open itself in different imaginative ways than the minds of some of the other participants in the weekend workshop. I might be the only non-clinician. Would I be a sort of journalist, reporting on the event? The only events I would report on would be my mental ones, moment to moment, which I’m doing now, in my imagination. I imagine that the workshop is on identifying manifestations of mind in clinical moments during sessions of psychotherapy. What this might mean is beyond me. The sentences are in charge. I’m along for the ride. Perhaps the workshop has already happened in my mind. I’ve spent enough hours in a therapist’s office to know that much of what I say in a given session has little thought in it, which sounds like a criticism, but isn’t meant as one. Sometimes it seems that therapy helps me learn how to think. How many thoughts have appeared in this paragraph? The experience has been in writing it. Maybe this writing experience has been a workshop on the manifestation of mind in a writing moment. These sentences have felt like a moment, which has reached its end, or so it seems.