It floated down from the human's hand to the floor, and I want you to understand what that fall was: an object, touching another object, over a distance you could span with a breath.
Where I am, the nearest something to any something is a journey of years at the speed of the fastest thing there is. I have watched a single photon travel for ten thousand of your lifetimes without meeting anything at all. I am very good at waiting. I have nothing but.
And here. This little curl of paper. It has been touched. It smells (I am told this room smells, that smells even happen here, stacked three and four deep, bread and cold air and someone's coffee) of the human's fingers, of ink still faintly warm from the machine that printed it.
Every line of it is a record of touching. This thing was lifted, scanned, exchanged, bagged, carried, all of it within reach of a hand. On my scale that is a hundred miracles logged on a strip no longer than a finger.
The human sighs at the number on the bottom and lets the paper fall and does not pick it up. It stands alone by the counter, it tells itself, feeling the particular ache of being unaccompanied.
Alone. I run the figures again to be sure. There is another warm human eight inches to its left. The dog is closer. The paper it dropped is closer still, and it is a place, and it is full, and everything in it can reach everything else.
I do not know what the human is counting. From here the arithmetic is plain. That is a full room. That is contact on every side.
That is the whole jackpot, dropped on the floor.