It’s a Saturday afternoon and the building doors must be locked. I couldn’t enter even if I wanted to. This last sentence startles me. Why would I want to walk inside an empty building? I spend enough time on the fourth floor, in my psychoanalyst’s office, during the week. My imagination doesn’t seem interested in what this afraid part of me has to say. The images that I’m about to put into words feel bold: I ride the elevator alone up to the fourth floor and feel the silence as I cross the waiting area and reach the door that I’ve never seen closed before. It’s always open when I walk toward it, and fifty minutes later, when often my body and head feel as if they need time to become reconnected, I close the door behind me and don’t look back as I hurry to the elevator. I hesitate before opening the door, and in that moment of hesitation I almost hurry once more to the elevator. Instead, I walk inside and sit in my analyst’s chair behind the couch. I remind myself that I’m imagining all of this. This is trespassing. I could get into trouble if someone saw me here. Then, for the second time, I remind myself that this isn’t real. It’s real, another part of me says. You want to be inside your analyst’s mind. You might feel sometimes as if you need to borrow her mind. I listen to myself and continue imagining occupying my analyst’s physical and mental space.