My own voice frightened me. I sounded angry. It was 12:03 in the afternoon. There was anger in my voice. It permeated my body. I imagined the anger engulfing me. Should I voice these imaginative experiences? Wasn’t that why I was in this motionless position for fifty minutes? I would be back in motion the moment I left this couch. I’d spent enough fifty-minute hours in this psychoanalysis to have had firsthand, conscious experiences of how imagination helps me become more aware of myself. Now I was afraid to speak. What could I say? I could say whatever came to mind. I heard my own voice again, and so did she, seated behind me. I seemed frightened of my own imagination. It must be 12:05 or 12:06. I didn’t look up to glance at the clock beyond the couch. She remained silent, for now. Seconds could’ve been minutes. Too much intense energy was pulsating through me. Why couldn’t I simply voice what was bothering me? An unwelcome truth appeared in a few words: because I didn’t know what was bothering me. How many more minutes would I have to lie here in confusion? The minutes didn’t know. My silent analyst, seated out of sight, didn’t know. I imagined that my body knew what was bothering me. It was waiting for the rest of me to catch up.