In the maze of passing interests, tucked somewhere in between learning how to speak backwards and calculating doomsday, there is a boy staring at his palms. At the fault lines. He can trace this morning’s argument to the crack he stepped on four months ago. Hindsight’s perfect vision making a mockery of present decisions. They show up on the doorstep of his mind, fissure-spun, a Pandora’s box wrecked, something vaguely ominous amicably placed at his inconvenience. There is an art to misstepping, he’s sure of it. Write place, wrong time. Wrong words, right line. Or something like that. He’s cobbled causality into something resembling rational thought, the disorder interpreted like tea leaves. The refrain: if he could do it all again, he’d do it differently. This time, he’d do it right.