In the sessions, I talked about my mother to the point of exhaustion, but the therapist still asked me to return again and again to certain unnecessary details. Luckily it occurred to me to talk about a dream I had; I remembered a dream that someone else had, or then the role of the dream was was played by a film I saw who knows how long ago. In my hand was a revolver. I walked down a rectangular staircase toward a cellar which I never reached because it was always a floor or two lower. I was in pursuit of someone – on the wall I could see his shadow, which stretched bigger the lower he went – until the stairs ended in water in which there floated, face down, a corpse. Now I am certain that what I called a dream was a scene from a film. But I do not see myself as a swindler: what I remember of the film also concerned the man I had shot.