[...] deep down they hold on to the card of freedom, that unspeakable yet precise certainty that they have a choice. They recall those times when they pay themselves a visit and take down an intention from the shelf, examine it, play a conviction like a music box, scold themselves for something they did, shake a snow globe and watch the snow falling as they hug someone, flip through the postcards of their happiness or courage, gather them together, collect themselves. They know that no one will ever be able to know the meaning life has for them, know they are unique, untranslatable, and call that freedom.