There are days, in which I cannot believe I am a dad.  I cannot believe that I must abide by the consequences of my choices.  That I have said when, and it was not this, not now, and not then.  The rules are the rules, whatever they are, and my dis-satisfaction never factors in as much as I would like it to.  I have to be a someone, of a certain type, and I play it exactly as it ought to be.  I can be anyone, so well.  It is a different thing, when one knows who one is, than when one is uncertain.  How strange.  I could have gotten here sooner, at a different time, in a different place.  It would have been exactly the same, yet, conclusions would have yielded distinct tonnage.  Or have, outside of a leap, a definite answer cannot be arrived at.  Do the possibilities exist, or have the dead defined us all?