When the Void Spoke Back: A Digital Poet’s Night in Chicago’s Fowl Feast

I never meant to write about gambling.

I wrote because the silence between losses sounded like a saxophone solo at 3 a.m.—the kind of quiet that only comes after you’ve lost too much, too often. My mother would say, ‘Luck is just rhythm,’ and my father would reply, ‘Strategy is how you breathe.’ So I built a game—not for profit, but for presence.

In ‘Echoes of the Void,’ there are no dice. Only data streams—RNG-certified, clean as winter moonlight on Lake Michigan. Each hand is a poem written in code:庄的胜率 at 45.8%,闲的抽水 at 5%. Not numbers. Patterns. Emotions.

I watched players chase streaks like children chasing fireflies at a Chinese New Year lantern festival—then stop when the music changed.

We don’t need more wins.

We need space to feel them.

The VIP program? It’s not points—it’s your name carved into the wall after ten nights of quiet play: ‘祥瑞福牛大师’.

I don’t play to win.

I play because once, in the dark, you heard your own breath—and it remembered you back.