It wasn’t my fault that work at my desk kept me from hurrying out the door sooner. I struggled to concentrate on the text on the screen. Editing the article took me longer than I’d expected. But I still had time to walk to his office. The sidewalks between my apartment, where I worked, and his consulting room, had become friends of mine, which sounded strange once I read the sentence. How could a public walking space that I shared with thousands of others become a friend? Anything seemed possible in my mind today. My editing work had nothing to do with inner chaos. Perhaps I felt isolated in my thoughts and desired a bigger mind in which I would be too occupied traveling around to feel isolated. In any case, the pavement didn’t increase my walking speed, and I was halfway to his office when I realized I would arrive late. Why didn’t I wait to finish the editing until after the session of psychotherapy? The work could’ve waited. I didn’t think about it clearly. It was important to me to arrive to the session on time. I wasn’t sure why. The why didn’t seem to matter. Nothing seemed to matter except the fear of arriving late. Then the fear said: no more words.