I imagine myself seated at a table in a small room with no other furniture. The word monastery comes to mind to describe where I am in my imagination. Paper and pencil appear on the table. I pick up the pencil and write: I can’t change anything from inside these stone walls. I stand up, as if I know of no other way to protest my own written words. I have chosen solitude, haven’t I? There is no car for me to drive. The sea is far away, and I am without a boat. I glance around the bare room. Where is a bicycle when I need one? These sentences aren’t enough. I picture a stack of books by my new favorite psychological thinker, James Hillman. Reality doesn’t allow me to create books with my imagination. I picture a door appearing in one of the stone walls, and I know where it leads: to a bookstore where I can find all of Hillman’s books in one row. Without warning, my hand holding the pencil stops moving across the page, and I realize that I have created something: all of these words on the piece of paper that I have been reading and rereading in the form of sentences. Silence has helped create this paragraph. I am in a monastery in my mind.