For the days you're at a real fork, like standing in Shibuya's crossing as it changes, knowing one way is about to become yours.

A red leaning forward, crimson into black. It has the heat just off a flame and the dry bite of pepper.

A fork can keep you frozen in the middle of the crossing, afraid to commit. It chooses nothing for you — it holds the turning-point still long enough that you can feel which way is yours before you take it.