A new author has found me. That doesn’t sound right. Perhaps I imagine more inner space in which to experience another psychological thinker. Much of his writing reminds me of a literary writer. Or I’ve found him. We’ve found each other. I’m not only writing these words. I’m speaking them, in my imagination, to a woman I’ve never met. I doubt that she’s read the author that I’ve become obsessed with, although they’re both psychotherapists. I almost wrote: she and I are both psychotherapists. I’m someone who writes, who happens to be in psychotherapy, in psychoanalysis, for me an intense form of treatment that I’d dreamed of experiencing for years. Dreaming was part of what led me into a therapist’s office for the first time, two decades ago. Perhaps the woman I speak to in my imagination appeared in a dream back then, when I started to record my dreams for the first time. She’s in my mind now. I imagine her speaking to an audience, of which I’m part. I can tell that she’s decided not to use the notes she arrived with. I become excited listening to her. The experience is like reading the psychological thinker whose more than twenty books have started to appear on my shelves. I’m discovering something alive inside of myself. My imagination feels more alive. Reality says: include me too.