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?