If I could, I would point a finger at myself. Then you. Then everyone. Then at the sky. Maybe I might even spin around as fast as I can, pointing at everything else.

I could take a walk. I might try to balance on all things possible; on my mother’s back, an iron rail, a loose rope, a tight highway. Air.

How about flying while I’m crying liquid hyperactivity. I might take a left at the Moon, swoop down over Mars, hover over Jupiter, and make it back by dinnertime.

Now that I think about it, I’ll dig, but I want someone to start the hole. This place is too big to decide where to slam the shovel in first, who knows what I’ll hit, maybe another hole.

I’ll choose. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll get lost in choice, wandering down a cereal aisle until I get lost in choosing and store security has to show me the way out.

Then there’s worry.

Wait, I could perform all. I’ll choose to fly, then land on a string of worry beads. I’ll walk them tight then loosen up, point my toes, dismount and limp away. I dig it.