It’s as if I’m the last one to arrive in my own mind. Images and words have been waiting a while. Thoughts are here too. Things have been happening, without me. A sandy beach and ocean waves appear. I imagine a thick hardcover of Freud’s writings. Then I see the words vacation and dreams, as if there were some hidden logic in all of this. Something becomes clearer: the thick hardcover is Freud’s The Interpretation of Dreams, which I’ve recently read about in a few of Freud’s letters to Wilhelm Fliess, which he wrote while writing the book. Another word, the verb block, arrives, and it feels unwelcome. Where am “I” in all of this? I associate the word vacation to freedom in my mind, and then, a second or two later, a wall crashes down on top of the word vacation and breaks it in two. What am I supposed to do with this verbal wreckage? Not everything in my mind has been destroyed. Some form of I has written these sentences. Ocean waves have reappeared, and so has Freud’s The Interpretation of Dreams, this time in paperback, which resembles the one I bought at a nearby bookstore last winter. The verb block returns too, and I imagine a car in a narrow driveway, blocking my way. Since I feel welcome in my mind, I simply leap over the car, as if my imagination had nothing to do with it.