There isn’t time for this. I don’t have time, for what I wonder. I can’t even finish my own sentences. In ten minutes I must get back to work. I would be working right now if it weren’t for two images that demand my attention. I want to say something about choice, but no words or images present themselves for me to choose from. This might be a short or long ten minutes. The two images remind me of a dream that refuses to disappear and let me continue with my day. I seem to be in a bad mood. In one image, a man and a woman sit across from each other at a table. In the other image, a man writes at his desk in haste. He must finish and go, somewhere. There’s too much he must do. A third image appears: the couch where I lie and try to say whatever comes to mind several times a week. I focus on it, or it focuses on me. And I start writing about those two other images. They complement each other. One needs the other. My mind needs another, in some form. These images have been my other. In a way, they’ve written these sentences. I’ve no idea how long ago those ten minutes passed. And the minutes have the images to thank for it.