It is not a direction you would cast dice to stars to find. Beyond serendipity or mere misstep and entirely undeliberate, still. Walking to a pond on a day in February that smells like a dirty sponge, one accidentally trips and falls splash into a mud-puddle--this is chance. Walking to the same pond on the same day one trips and sprawls into a stone-lined cache of Salinger's unknown rejected writing, mainly porn. This is the fate tarot cards represent. And then you can continue to the pond, or read them and begin masturbating there in a rain-swamped trough with caterpillars heaving themselves over your ankles and the taste of rotten leaves and preserved hamburger wrappers in your mouth. If at this point you unsnap your plastic raincoat, cast down your umbrella and let your hand begin tentatively stroking your mud-sling jeans, then you are adept at finding this direction. Only idiots and optimists speak of bad luck, or good, or luck as opportunistic at all -- it is not. Luck is the April fool's trick of minor deities, the smell of forgotten thoughts. Luck is the direction necessary for adventure.
