The Trafalmagorians taught Billy Pilgrim

How unexpected, with what secret design does fate move? Stranding and connecting threads. Will you call it choice? In this improvised street orchestra I am not trumpet or drum, I am a fretless violin with the voice of a lone cloud in an overcast sky. Do you wonder whether perhaps everything is necessary, connected in ways that we will never manage to comprehend? Imagine every evangelical standing on a soapbox preaching brimstone into a megaphone, every leather studded bear skinned homosexual on Folsom Street, every dry skinned crackhead outside my door, every prostitute in Bangkok, every hipster sporting worn out ironies, every broken heart, every film in every astigmatic eye, every auto accident, every suicide, every chainsmoker, every smile, every orgasm, every newborn child, every thing, every thought, every action somehow depended upon every other...