The only thing about this morning’s writing that I’m certain of is that the narrator is a man, like me, and sometimes he’s uncertain about everything, also like me. Maybe that’s all I need to know. Images of others, in the process of becoming fictional others, might join my narrator in these sentences. Maybe one other will be enough. Certainty isn’t my friend this morning. In reality, I know a few psychotherapists, and their offices, whom I could create fictional characters out of. And I have fictional versions of a few of the early psychoanalysts, such as Sigmund Freud, Carl Jung, and Sandor Ferenczi, ready in my mind. For years I’ve been reading Freud’s correspondences with both of these younger colleagues. Of the four therapists whose offices have become familiar to me in the past two decades, all of them have experienced psychoanalytic training. Perhaps one or all of those four physical spaces can become part of this and future narratives, a series of narratives, that seem to be forming themselves in my imagination. Perhaps one or all of the four psychotherapists I’ve worked with might join one or more of those early psychoanalysts in my imagination to form a new fictional voice. I’m uncertain about everything. Fictional voice seems to be what I’m seeking this morning. In reality, in the present tense, I speak on the couch in the office of one of those four psychotherapists, who’s also a psychoanalyst, several times a week. I imagine that a writing table suddenly appears in her office, and I’m sure I’m hallucinating it until I sit down and start writing on a laptop, which also appears. One of the sentences is: Perhaps this is my fictional home. Now I know where my narrator is this morning, in his new writing home, alongside a psychoanalytic couch, certain about where he is, for the moment.