Seconds felt like hours. The blank screen seemed angry with me. I realized I had only myself to listen to. There would be no fifty minutes on the psychoanalytic couch for me today. I was on my own emotionally. I felt as if I were being punished. Why don’t I leave and come back? It was one of the advantages of working at home. I was out the door five minutes later, in my imagination. In reality, I remained at my desk and traveled in my imagination. My feet remained on the carpet and I imagined myself on the sidewalk, walking in the rain without an umbrella. I wanted to experience everything. My laptop felt more welcome when I pictured it as a manual typewriter, which in reality I hadn’t used in decades. In my imagination, I wrote on that old machine about walking in my neighborhood and discovering a psychology bookstore, where I found shelves with the complete works of Jung and Freud and remained motionless for what seemed far too little time. This was home. If only this home were real. My desk, my laptop, and my unfinished work were still here. In my imagination, so was the psychology bookstore.