This work is my writing cure. I write ten, twenty, thirty sentences without thinking about what I’m doing. Later on, while rereading, I glimpse possibilities about what I might have tried to convey in those sentences. Possibility involves mystery. And writing is mysterious to me. Despite the reality that I’m alone with pen and paper, my imagination tells me that I’m lying on a couch, a professional sits behind me listening in a meditative state of mind, and I must risk uttering whatever comes to me, moment to moment, without knowing what word or image might come to me next. So writing is an inner dialogue. And writing needs a partner: reading. I always read before I write. Most days I read someone whose sentences create confusion in my mind. I’d never thought of it in those words. Freud is my latest victim. What do I mean by that? It’s as if I were more powerful than him. My images of him exist only in my mind. Perhaps I’m glimpsing why I read and write: the writer in me often mistreats what exists in my mind or the reality in my imagination. Writing without thinking helps to put the writer in me in his place. This process becomes possible when I imagine myself as a patient on the psychoanalytic couch or as a client seated across from his psychotherapist. These sentences are the result of the process. I wish I understood it better.