Everything done decent and in order. That’s how he measured his life: proper, following a pattern. Change the patter, change the life. Maybe that’s what he meant when he started writing with his left hand instead of his God-given rightness. Over time, other things changed as well, different foods, vegetables exchanged for meat, different clothes, turtle-necks replacing buttoned up neckties. Even the singing, a haunting baritone that could shake your bones, even that voice changed, took on a timber it never held before. Before what, though? What caused this departure, this divestiture of his previous life? What had he done that sent him careening into uncharted territory? What could he possibly seek to leave behind from that immaculate and coiffed life of yesterday? Madness, then, to think that changing himself could change the world.