Occasional crap. But not occasional in the sense of “for an occasion.”
there were days when nothing seemed left open to chance, that all was determined, locked down to a script that the man had no notion of until it the lines were spoken, the actors entered or exited, and if he had ever thought that such a condition might have been comforting, no choice wrong but blocked out in uneditable text, he now thought it a horror and was nearly, but not entirely, certain that he’d ever had that thought. and even thinking of the thought of the thought made him think: winter.
