The illusion of decision is
The most overwhelming addiction,
An intense, continuous desire
To ask oneself, this or that? Or what?
Twenty years in the western mountains,
And my hair and beard have all gone white.
I’ve watched stars from car windows cold nights.
There were dawns I half-vanished in ice.
But what looked like choice from the outside
And helpless indecision within,
Had little to do with strategy
Played foolishly or wisely. I was
As decisive and indecisive
As the hairs on my head, as the stars,
As the windows I waited beside,
As the dawns, as the nights, as the ice.