The ceramic mug laden with mustaches is the one I choose each morning. Its shape is perfect: rounded and robust handle, solid and thick stature of containing body, lip widening slightly outward to hold the full moon liquid of black coffee. Frida’s unibrow is on there somewhere, and you would think Hitler’s fascist micro-stash would be in the milieu of famous facial hair, but I guess this was intentionally omitted. The actions which repeatedly perform themselves within the trajectory of our roaming, wise bodies, which feel our decisions before we make them. The question becomes not how but when. When all of our deeds are done, who will be left to turn out all the lights? Who will have guessed and guessed right? What if our choosing is always inevitable? I pretend to know what my body tries to make of me.