You’ll wake and decide which side of the bed to rise from. Choose which shirt to wrench from its hanger, which bowl to use. You’ll decide what train to take, toward which passenger you’ll scowl, which absentminded thought to let slip from your head, which daydream to attend to like a gardener at his plot. You’ll choose which staircase up which to trod, sun or wind or rain obscuring the street in front of you as you merge with day. You’ll choose what job to hate, which boss to loathe, lunch to eat, woefull skill to craft and which path to stumble down. You’ll choose and choose until I strike you down with my blade, which is sharper and more precise than you’ll ever know.