Is there something disordered in my imagination, that I find myself recoiling from the thought of such fixity, as it pertains to our existence? When the avenues of reality might be so innumerable? When every moment of one’s life might be as a prism through which are refracted countless variations of that particular unfolding, though only one such variation seems to become actual? How does one reconcile one’s self to the singularity of one’s own history?