And a Four Leaved clover

Luck, like any form of magic, is often quite difficult to brew and demands following very precise instructions and a keen attention to detail. But, as all other forms of magic, the manifestation of luck often appears effortless. So it is quite understandable that luck is seen, not only as something that anybody can have, but as something that appears at random.

This is what the keepers of the brew would have it look like. To have it known that a quick pot of luck contains many readily available ingredients ( things like a snails shell and 33 already used scratch card vouchers are not that hard to come by) would be catastrophic. Imagine what it would be like if every fool and their side kick decided to start trying to brew luck in their own backyard. Suddenly everyone would be up all night to get lucky and in more ways than two helmets could ever imagine.

Especially if the helmets in question were only just on the journey of human programming and reprogramming. After all the poetry in the world was added to other elements of the code, it would be complete. Or so they thought – as if the code can be cracked by a pliers and a slightly rusty boy.

How many ways exist to be masculine?

If you’re counting in lightyears then, perhaps you might need to account for all the dark matter that moves out of the way the moment light charges forward. Because, that’s all there is, isn’t it? A moment – and then everything else. Evaporations of a singular drop of luck that was brewed by a fool, and seven other people.

Seven other people.

Him, her, they, them, and three others who insisted on being called by their names.

If you, however, insist on using the more radical method of actually finding out, things begin to get a little interesting. And then the code begins to be slightly clearer. As if wearing a pair of glasses (the term is adequate, yes? What is your lens?)

But glasses are no good in the heat of the warm room, where the luck must sit for 16.9 antimoments before it can be used for any real reason. Which is why the keepers of the brew are very pedantic about understanding how clearly we see. But we see, and clarity is nothing more than an accumulation of lenses. The naked eye has no modesty. Only what is before it. Only what it has perceived in the moments that it wrought itself part prisoner and part prison guard.

(What good is the self if it does not exist to keep the self at bay?)

No one really knows whether the helmets managed to brew their pot of luck. Perhaps it would be something else if it was reported later. If some shell-less snail was seen on the news, telling stories of a dark night when, out of the shadows, appeared indecency. But there was no news heard, no shell missing, just a solitary pot over the dying embers of yesterday, struggling to boil.

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