Everything happens on schedule, at the appointed hour,
but who sets the clock? I awoke one morning
on the floor, curled up against a bookshelf,
or was it out on my deck in the night air --
the details elude me. But there must be a reason,
right? Perhaps I needed the comfort of my books,
or the fresh air of a hot spring night. Perhaps
none of this really happened anywhere
except on this page. Everyone hurts, but suffering
is optional. I read that someplace, or something
similar. Have I chosen this, or was it my time,
my turn, my number pulled from a hat?
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