A Theory of Falling Dice
Randomness enters softly: a moth at the window, a number choosing itself, a pattern pretending not to be one.
Opening
The first accident is light
It spills across the floor in broken arithmetic, and every shadow answers with a different name.
Drift
Coins dream of edges
Between yes and no, the metal hesitates—spinning a brief philosophy of balance, then surrendering to a side.
Echo
What remains is not an answer
Only the tender scatter of maybe: dust in a beam, footsteps in rain, your own pulse arriving slightly before you expect it.