This wasn’t the first time I’d been in this building on a Friday night. I paused as I counted the number of years since the last time. How was it possible that I last listened to a Jungian psychoanalyst in this room sixteen years ago? I decided to come tonight at the last possible moment. I would’ve preferred to remain at home and read something interesting. My body seemed to say: Too bad! You need a lecture on the soul, which was what the middle-aged man in front of us would soon start talking about. I was seated in a middle row. There were more people than I’d expected. More of these sentences would’ve written themselves in my mind. But the pen in my hand and the paper on my lap demanded some of my attention. I would listen and I would write. The Jungian analyst’s words seemed to speak to my imagination. I pictured myself in his head. How was he experiencing us? He appeared to have forgotten about the papers he’d brought with him to the lectern. We must have seemed interested in his words. He spoke without a pause. For how long would he speak? I felt too close to him in a psychic sort of way. Then I remembered: there was a coffee break in the middle of the last lecture I attended here. He was speaking directly to me. His words wouldn’t have allowed me to leave the room, even if my feet had insisted on moving. I was no longer writing words on paper. Something important was happening to me, beyond words.