- I walk along a corridor. Girls are seated on a bench to my right. They are all pretty, clothed in varied tones and cuts of black material. I glance at the faces and forms as I walk by. I join with them mentally, bathing at once in the wild mixture of curiosity and skepticism their eyes betray. I desire them. Each of them. Sometimes the face is partially covered, a dark scarf concealing the mysteries beneath. Lovely banditas. The wall behind is lined with photographs and posters - an occasional face there reminds me of one I saw perhaps thirty seconds ago, but when I return the way I came, I cannot find who it might have been. So I move forwards along the wall of femininity that tempts me with each and every facet of color, form and expression. I attempt to speak to one, than another of the girls. Variations of "Where is this place?" or "Wasn't that you in the photograph I just saw?" Eyes turn upwards to view me. I feel them study me with interest, but the reply is another language whose syllables I cannot decipher, and there is no revelation in the girl's features as to what my questions mean to her. So I continue. Walking. Walking. Walking.

- Describe the corridor.

- It is a corridor without end. Or maybe this is an illusion created by a slight lengthwise convexity of the inner wall, matched by an equal concavity in the outer wall. But if that is so, the walls curve as the surface of the Earth curves, so minutely and negligibly, that it is impossible to perceive. It might be a corridor along a ring of Saturn. But all this remains a vague nuance. It is the girls who command my attention.

- Now I want you to concentrate. To think. This next question is vitally important. Let us say there are four phenomena of the mind. Four categories, antiseptically distinct. There are real perceptions. There are hallucinations. There are daydreams; and finally there are dreams of sleep, perhaps even nightmares. Each of these mind-events leaves indelible traces: memories, the documents we turn over in our hands later and examine front to back for details determined by the intensity of the phenomenon. Look closely at that document you hold now and trace its lineage to the source.

- It's no use. I've tried again and again but I can't. I am terrified that this memory lives, and that I cannot determine its origin. I close my eyes to conjure it forth again. I search for the slightest clue. I dream the memory at night and approach one of the girls to ask if she is an hallucination. But her reply is as meaningless as in the memory.

- Still I feel that we are much nearer now to the truth. But I'm afraid the time is up. We must end the session for today. You will think of these questions, won't you? And we'll continue again next time?

- Yes. I will. We will.

She rose from the plush leather couch that had embraced her form. The therapist watched her. She might be 15. She might be 20, or even 25. Oh to have lain on that couch with her, he thought, instead of this mere exchange of words! He gave a noncommittal glance as she moved towards the door, opened it, and vanished from his sight into the hall. But she did not cease to exist. She scanned the corridor from left to right in search of a vacant place to sit. But each spot on the bench was occupied by a girl she had never seen before. From behind the door the therapist's voice called a name she did not recognize. One of the girls on the bench rose and entered the chamber, leaving a vacant seat behind her.

Story #392

Thanks to everyone who posted a story, despite my having been away so long!