Possibility gets around. It is in tune with sap that flows in the veins of trees. And then there is the end of possibility. Choked as if by drowning in the crowd of clouds. There is a trick to keep drawing sap in the middle of all this choking. It is possible.
Choice is in cahoots with chance. Throw dice and you will see a smattering of chance. And choice. There is some agreement as to what constitutes this random act of choosing. But this agreement is lost in the crowd, in the noise. So you will have to excuse the guest who stays the night and welcomes the day, only to curse both light and shadow. The teeth of possibility have only dawned at night.
A game is to be decided upon. Some will choose to play. Some will choose to abandon it in favor of the lesser game of chance. Where cards are stacked up and thrown about. There is the card of death the pleases the fantasy of everyone. For it is only in the absence of the possibility of death that night strikes. And you are struck by the awesomeness of it all. As if it was played for your sake, and you were the only one seeing it.
A door opens, and you can only hear it creaking. A door closes, and you still hear only the creaking. The noise of opening and shutting is lost on you, for you are caught in the process of evaluating. And when the evaluation ceases, the door will either be open or shut. And you will hear it. It will be silent, but the event will not be lost.
It is only the tide that gathers and wanes and falls. Falls as if the rhythm that constitutes the gathering and falling is its own. That is a mistake perhaps? But no, the rhythm is deliberate. Only the appearance of rhythm is contingent, consequent, foretold.