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     There sat a man, legs crossed and reading an old leather-bound book from the light of a single lamp post. A sparrow was perched on his shoulder, and to any casual observer it might have looked like the bird was skimming the pages, too.

     But then again, there weren’t many visitors to the park at this time of night, and especially not with the snow blanketing the ground, so the man and the sparrow paid no mind to their surroundings. At times, the man would even read aloud from the book and give his commentary on it, with the sparrow chiming in.

     “William Ernest Henley,” the man said, letting the name roll off his tongue. He glanced over the poem and cracked a laugh as it ended. The sparrow chirped in confusion and hopped closer to the book to get a closer look. In reply, the man pointed to the final two lines.

     “’I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.’” The man snapped the book shut and threw it into the darkness.

     “What a crock of shit.”