A coin flipped and thrown in the air, not caught but forever falling through the mutable atoms of the floor and the soil and the stone, and so on it falls directly through the Centre of the Earth where it melts and becomes a sphere of impure metal.
A sphere of impure metal passing through the Centre of the Earth and rising through rock and soil and floor on the other side rises above the hand of one who flipped a coin in a different currency and lands on an outstretched palm.
Is this the story of a coin, or of two coins, or of a sphere of impure metal? Is this some rational explanation of the working of things, or a parable, or some hidden wisdom disguised in tiny letters like an engraving on a coin that tells which year it was made?
Is this the story of a man flipping a coin, or his mirror on the opposite side of the earth who still searches for the coin he flipped and that now he cannot find? Or is it the story of a child in the forest who witnesses a strange coin suddenly leap up from the ground and then fall to the dirt?
Is this the story of the coin or a sphere or a man, or the tiny letters on a coin, or the face on a coin, or does it say something about currency and exchange, or luck or the mutability of atoms, or the unique perspective one has when standing on one particular side (or another) of a sphere spinning through space?
Is this an improbable story about probability, or a story about hope, or a story about absurdity? Is this the crystalised moment that the coin was thrown and an exploration of the myriad possibilities that it contains as it turns in the air?
Or, perhaps, it is none of these and it is only a coin, flipped, and we will never know which way up it lands.