It is today, and once again, that you find yourself at the end of some wandering. Confronted, face to book spine, with shelves full of knowledge - paralyzed with the apparent "limited" selection. You are fully aware, that when broken down into time segments, there is far too much here to take in in one lifetime.
It is amassed, this knowledge, and in front of you, a hands reach away.
To this, you let destiny take the lead. Closing your eyes, taking two steps to either the right or left (being careful to avoid the ladder), reaching in front of you, thrusting your hand forward until your fingers stub on a spine. Opening your eyes, you survey what fate has brought you: "Modernism and Abstraction." You play with the book, pulling it out slightly, feeling guilty for (honestly) just wanting to put it back. Not wanting to seem ungrateful, you pull it out and flip through it before putting it back on the shelf.
Closing your eyes again, taking two more steps - to the left - and again thrusting your hand forward, stubbing your fingers with slight, excessive force this time (as if punishment for the lackluster interest in the previous offering), you open your eyes to "Hieronymus Bosch" and know that the Gods of fate are laughing at you.
Tomorrow your finger will surely be in a splint.
[01.04]
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