The thoughts in my head seem to know I’m listening to them. They appear to struggle to express themselves. There are lots of starts and stops, as if the thoughts themselves were controlled by a more powerful force. I imagine my mind in two places at once: lying on a couch, speaking, revealing, hiding, or ignoring what’s happening in its interior, and seated behind the couch, listening both to the account of the other and to its own inner imaginings. Why don’t I write person or persons instead of mind? Something about the mind as a subject of incessant activity seems important. My thoughts need another part of me to focus on them, since I sometimes feel overwhelmed by my own inner world. I don’t want to create a fictional account of a psychoanalytic session. I don’t need to. I’m interested in what I experience when I feel listened to, from within. The thoughts in these sentences, whatever they might be, seem to point toward a mental future that remains unclear in words. This last sentence surprises me. I associate the creation of thoughts more with images than with words. Maybe I’m learning how to think in images. Such work takes time. If part of my mind is on the couch, and another part seated behind the couch, I imagine I’m prepared to spend time on this endeavor. My mind might let me know, if I listen.