For some strange reason I have always fantasized about becoming involved with a blue-eyed Italian psychiatrist, hoping to be pulled into his deep Cerulean eyes. I would ignore his thick Cimbrian accent, melting from his low sultry tone, I’d stare at his thick blond hair, dismiss the relevance of his hands waving wildly at me urging me to stia calma. I refuse to speak up, he urges me to be coraggiosa, reveal what has been troubling me all these years, holding me back. His eyes beckon me to come closer, it would be his gaze that would force me to submit to my old terror. Sadly, just as I am about to reveal my fears, the bells toll from the tower of the cathedral across the piazza. Then, the timer on his desk chimes that my hour is up.