What is life if not a die with infinite faces rolling down an unending alley of hues, shaped by the quirky sinuosities of fate? A misplaced number, the slam of a door, an unspoken secret, a twig snapped in flight, a lost piece of a puzzle, a scream in the darkness, a rock on a cliff, a predator behind a bush, an unfinished conversation, a ring of keys, a torn page, a stranger in floating glass, a dented coin... a speck of wavering stardust is what makes a life.
But, is all that comes to be, all that could be?
Where do we belong, are we the dreamer or the dream itself? Or are we limited to being human by the escherian sense of being both?
What are we, tiny white balls naively playing out the simple laws of physics in a lawless world, lost wanderers in this labyrinthine evocation of chance, mere mortals in the face of this insatiable infinity of incertitude?