Calmness appeared, disappeared, reappeared. My feet were touching the sidewalk. There was no screaming in my head. I knew what I was making contact with physically. What was controlling my imagination? Seconds earlier, the image had been clear: I was screaming in an empty field. Then an inner door seemed to close, which barred the screaming me from making contact with the rest of me. Contact as a form of communication seemed important. My feet were on the ground. It was 12:03 pm. The July midday sun reminded me that I was in a hurry to reach the door of our building. I didn’t want to sweat right before returning to my desk and to the editing work that would occupy my mind during the rest of the afternoon. In the previous sentence, I imagined writing: I didn’t want to scream right before returning to my desk. Some inner door had closed behind me. Where was the screaming me now? Seconds felt like an hour. I was so afraid of something that I had no idea what it was. A child me and an adult me appeared, they were as real as the sidewalk below my feet, and for a long second it was uncertain which one would scream. Maybe both of them would. I was lonely as a child, although I was too anxious ever to realize it. Years and decades passed, and I didn’t change. I wanted to write that nothing changed. “I” didn’t have to become part of this. Writing a sentence like the previous one was hard. It was painful to see how afraid I could be of even glancing at myself in the mirror. One moment I saw one thing, the next moment something different appeared. I walked a few more feet and glanced at my watch. It was 12:04 pm. The sidewalk remained below my feet. The screaming me would reappear or not reappear, in its own time.