In about 15 minutes I'll be getting off the train. I'm listening to an audio book of The Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann. My eyes are morning dozy. I have sunglasses on and notice the odd bird here and there. In the back of my mind are all the alternative realities I could be living. I live a few ounces of each of them like droplets of a precious liquid. That will have to be enough. I have free will. I can get off the train early and spend the day in Harlem. I can get off and turn around and go home and make an excuse to my employer. I can get in my car with a pack of cigarettes and drive to Pittsburgh or further like Rabbit Angstrom in John Updike's Rabbit Run. My life fits like a cozy old sweater. But sometimes it itches a little.