A sliver of light pierces the otherwise uniform dimness of the room, a rare event. Within this beam, countless motes of dust dance and swirl in a silent, chaotic ballet. I have been observing their motion for some time, attempting to map their trajectories and predict their paths. It is a futile effort. Their movements are random, governed by forces I cannot perceive, a microcosm of the larger world outside this space. Each particle is a vessel of disorder, a tiny testament to the universe’s preference for entropy. She, of course, would see nothing but a need to clean. She would view this intricate, chaotic system as a problem to be solved, a mess to be eliminated. But I see a metaphor. I see the aimless, frantic movements of humanity itself, each individual convinced of their own agency while being tossed about by unseen currents. They are all just motes of dust in a sunbeam, their brief, chaotic dance signifying nothing. It is a strangely comforting thought. It imposes a kind of order on their otherwise incomprehensible behavior. A geometry of chaos.