Random Numbers, darkmatter
The dice have wings. They are little insects of chance, scared away by a sudden movement, a wreckless decision. I see gamblers running around with oversized nets, distended surfaces of hope whose holes gape as they scythe the air.
The dice rest on the flat of my hand and for a moment they are still. Then I cup them between my palms and they start to buzz. To shake and sting. Little stabbing pains in my skin. I let them go.
There is a swarm of dice now, stripping the pleasant green certainties of leaves. A probable desert is all that remains on this land. I hide somewhere between and one and thirty-six.
The dice rest on the flat of my hand and for a moment they are still. Then I cup them between my palms and they start to buzz. To shake and sting. Little stabbing pains in my skin. I let them go.
There is a swarm of dice now, stripping the pleasant green certainties of leaves. A probable desert is all that remains on this land. I hide somewhere between and one and thirty-six.
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