Waiting for an email that never arrived created unoccupied time that I’d assumed would be spent doing something else. I was on our couch at home, with both a psychological book and this laptop on a coffee table alongside me. I knew the email wouldn’t appear in my inbox. It had never been written. If it had, it would’ve been sent, and I would be doing something else right now. I would be editing an article on a tool manufacturer. As it turns out, I’ve written these sentences, I’m drinking a cup of Irish tea (I was told, where I bought it this morning, that it was the strongest Irish tea they had), and I’m glancing at the hardcover that I found a place for on the coffee table minutes ago. My ego is occupied. Something tells me that this couch time would be better spent emptying my mind. I reach for the book and start to reread the final chapter, in which he writes about his work with a particular patient. This isn’t psychoanalytic writing, I think. He’s a real writer. He’s not writing about a case. He’s writing about a human being, with whom he worked with for only a brief period. She stopped coming. He wrote about her desire to feel alive. Do I feel alive as I write these sentences? An unwelcome sentence arrives: I feel alive enough. I want to feel more alive than that. Maybe I must wait. Moments of aliveness comes to mind. Perhaps moments from now a different sentence might write itself, in which I feel fully alive. Or maybe more time must pass. Aliveness happens, in its own time.