The fifty-minute hour was probably only minutes old when I imagined Mary lying on a couch alongside me. Who would listen to me now? Both of the above sentences appear on this screen in what feels like seconds. I’m at my desk at home, writing about what happened earlier this morning in a nearby fourth floor consulting room. The image of my psychoanalyst on a couch alongside me, in her office, grows in my mind, and then the following realization appears: we’re both seeking the truth. Another sentence demands to share space on this screen: Whose mind are we analyzing? A memory comes to me, here at my laptop, of the first time I struggled to free-associate on Mary’s couch, twelve months ago: I was afraid of the words that left my mouth, one second at a time. This last sentence reminds me that I felt the same way a short time ago, earlier this morning, during our Monday session. In reality, Mary was seated behind me, not lying on a couch alongside me. Maybe part of me desired her to be a patient like me, which in reality, who knows, she might still be. I wonder what she’s doing right now, as I write this sentence. I should be editing something, shouldn’t I? The question feels a little dangerous, as if I were tempting fate, since I know from experience that a job could arrive in my email inbox at any moment. And of course I want work, which is how I pay for the psychoanalysis, yet these minutes, and maybe hours, of time just to imagine and write, seem more valuable than money. To write, and to lie on a couch and speak whatever comes to mind, knowing that someone is seated behind me, focusing both on my mind and on his or her own, is one of the most valuable gifts I’ve ever received. And who have I received it from? From myself? Today, Monday, feels like a slow day, as if neither God nor my parents were in a gift-giving mood. As I write more sentences, hopefully more of today’s session will become clearer to me.