The stone sat to my left, reclusive and inanimate. Merely an object, lacking agency, will and direction. If I cast it, will it break bones, shatter windows, end lives; create anew?
Will it re-hinge some lost component in my furious mind? Perhaps.
My agency applied gives airborne ballistic revolution.
The book sits to my right in waiting, titles irrelevant. A bottomless container of irresistible beauty, a well of the fathomed and the unfathomable. If I open it, will it spill like an ocean; set ablaze dead tissue; kill and reanimate? Re-open some long lost gate, obscured by blunt force floating aimlessly in the ether? Will it usurp my mind? Will I write about retrieving my sovereignty of thought?
My agency applied supplies a dichotomy.