I could see myself on this couch for another four or five years. I don’t know how many minutes I’d been in her office when these words uttered me. This last clause demanded that I wrote it as it came to me. I could’ve said no and written a clause that made more sense to me. Yet if I had, I wouldn’t be writing this sentence, and my intuition tells me these sentences are headed somewhere, which as a writer, I know from much experience too often isn’t the case. The phrase made more sense makes me anxious. It almost sounds dangerous. Dangerous to whom or to what, I wonder. The phrase danger to these sentences arrives on its own. The part of me that tries to make sense of things becomes a stranger or even a danger to the writer in me. Perhaps this mysterious or unknown inner writer, which I imagine ultimately creates the grammatical, thought, and emotional structures that become my sentences, is perceived by another part of me, the I, as both a stranger and a danger. I imagine that I sense imminent defeat at the hands of this Other, so I cling to whatever feels real. Enough of this inner confusion! Can’t I be both one and several writers simultaneously? These sentences seem to have answered the question for me. I can see myself in psychoanalysis for a long time to come. I don’t have to differentiate between fantasy and reality. They’ve made things clear enough on their own.