Two filled mittens have hung since birth. One grasps a bib, outlined in blue.
And half of a black-walnut shell adheres to the other's peripheral fuzz.
Do you believe in unseen hands? Or choices at all?
A voice enters at two octaves:
"You'll only wear one!"
"But I don't know which one!"
"You're too old now, not to understand. Neither can be seen abstractly!"
"So I've got to decide?"
Double the half, and make a closed whole, or dribble pureed green mush down your chin.