How terrifying it can be to sense one is truly creating a life. Being dragged along by circumstances sounds bad, but at least one can depend on one’s creature instincts, attending to feed, and comfort, and even social norms. But to feel on the edge of real choice, even every second, with a disdain of one’s usual patterns, as if they are not to be trusted any more, makes the stomach drop. One feels one has come to stand on a cold plain swept by dry driving snow, with body heat seeping away toward inevitable freezing, limited time only to think one’s thoughts, make a mark, a sign post that will at least provide a tiny snow shelter, a pocket and small drift mark. Or just fade away into cold, clean oblivion. Will I ever have been here at all?