Handling That Which We Already Knew Would Come to Pass
Second, screaming in response to what we knew would happen without even an ounce of doubt accomplishes no more than a child in want of a Slurpee throwing himself to the sticky 7-11 floor and wailing like a banshee unless he gets it.
By morning, he had decided he needed somewhere nobody cared about theater, someplace where the name Chekhov was more likely to be mistaken for a rifle than a playwright.