The best things that happened to Otto were the ones that he had never expected because he had not imagined them. Whether he could have imagined them he wasn't sure. On the one hand, it seemed he indeed could have, since after they happened, he imagined them. On the other hand, just because things are imagined after they happen doesn't mean they were imaginable beforehand.
It was not coincidence. It was Otto. As soon as something entered into his imagination, he picked at it obsessively like an itchy scab until it became a dull scar consisting of layers upon layers of imagining. When the thing he imagined ultimately happened, it touched not him but the scar, and he could hardly feel it.
The only defense mechanism Otto had was to imagine as little as possible what might happen. Thus, except for what was absolutely necessary, he made no plans, followed no schedule, committed himself to nothing. Often he loved waking up with the day before him as a tabula rasa. Sometimes he despaired.
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