Chance (n.) is never believed in by a victor.
Chance (n.) is the oldest nobility in the world — given back to all things to redeem them from servitude under purpose.
Chance (n.) must be cooked in my pot; when it comes imperiously, my will speaks more imperiously, and soon it begs on its knees as "a friend coming to a friend."
Chance (n.) looks like chance and nonsense only looking forward; looking backward, the higher reason of our future task has been choosing all along.
Chance (n.) is the world's oldest nobility: things prefer to dance on the feet of chance, released from their servitude under purpose.