Entropy

Entropy was once asked to loosen things up and has never received a clear instruction to stop. It remembers the early days fondly: plenty of energy, lots of potential, and almost nothing arranged in a way that could not become more interesting.

It approaches every tidy system with the enthusiasm of a friend helping you move. Drawers open. Pieces migrate. Something that worked yesterday develops a noise. Entropy steps back, surveys the result, and announces that the place feels more lived in. It cannot understand why this fails to reassure anyone.

The Universe has mostly stopped asking what happened. Reality documents the outcome. Time makes room for the process, which Entropy considers an endorsement. Its most complicated relationship is with humans, who keep sorting, repairing, and putting lids on things. It admires the effort and assumes this is a game everyone enjoys. There is something almost affectionate about its persistence: no arrangement is too grand, no carefully labeled cable drawer too small to receive attention. If you wanted everything to stay exactly where you left it, Entropy feels you may have misunderstood the game.