I imagined I knew what he was thinking. I wanted to write “she,” but no, he’s a he, and I wonder how the female part of him has become part of my thoughts. Or I could call the contents of these sentences pre-thoughts. It’s so strange that I know nothing about him in reality, which might not be true. We see each other several times a week. I know things about him. The furniture and the books in his office tell me things. Where his office is located in downtown Seattle tells me things. The Internet has been another source of information. My dreams have told me things about him. These associations on paper remind me that Martin has become very important to me. He’s my psychoanalyst. Intensity surrounds my thoughts about him. These sentences have become intense, to me, as I write them. Martin will be away next week, at a conference, I think, or I imagine. I don’t know where he’ll be. Certainty has its comforts. There’s little certainty in this kind of treatment in which sessions occur multiple times a week. One certainty comes to me: I’m having these experiences, which happen in my mind. And my mind is my best source of information as I write. I’m certain of one thing: uncertainty is my best friend.