My analyst looked up briefly. Naturally I couldn't see him but I had learned, in our years together, to intuit these movements. As usual, he refused to acknowledge whether or not I was right. My ingenuity versus his evasiveness: our little game. At such moments, I felt the analysis was flourishing: it seemed to bring out in me a sly vivaciousness I was inclined to repress. My analyst's indifference to my performances was now immensely soothing. An intimacy had grown between us like a forest around a castle. The blinds were closed.
A word drops into the mist like a child's ball into high grass where it remains intermittently visible, seductively flashing and glinting until the gold bursts are revealed to be simply field buttercups. Word/mist, word/mist—thus it was with me. And yet, my silence was never total— Like a curtain rising on a vista, sometimes the mist cleared: alas, the game was over. The game was over and the word had been somewhat flattened by the elements so it was now both recovered and useless. I was renting, at the time, a house in the country. Fields and mountains had replaced tall buildings. Fields, co