Fifty minutes have found me. It feels like a lifetime of minutes to write. I want the writing to tell me what to write about. Write down whatever comes to you. Where does that come from? I write down the question and then wait for something to happen. An image of a famous psychoanalyst, a friend and colleague of Freud’s, arrives in an instant, and the image speaks: write as if you were the patient on the couch, which of course you have been, and maybe you should be again. Why does it feel weird to have a dead psychoanalyst from Budapest speak to me in my imagination? Many people think of psychoanalysis as weird, and also as dead. Those two words, weird and dead, seem to be asking me something. This is my time. I would be in my chair listening to a man around my own age, seated across from me. He cancelled this morning. Now I’m listening to myself, with a pen. Something or someone inside of me demands attention. I imagine the dead psychoanalyst from Budapest suggest that I go for a walk. I glance at the clock on my desk. There’s time. I glance out the window. It’s raining. My umbrella will keep me dry enough. Has the writing of these sentences been enough? Maybe more images will come to me outside on the sidewalk.