Once, a guy was struggling forever to buy a metro ticket. The machine refused him repeatedly. The exact moment I walked down the stairs and stood in line behind him, the ticket printed instantly, effortlessly. As if nothing had ever been wrong. He turned around, smiled, and said — with absolute confidence — that my presence had made it work. Apparently, I was good luck. This quickly escalated into an invitation to his art studio, to look at his paintings, and, somehow, also to see the moonlight. I smiled back and told him that attributing random events to a common cause was, at best, a textbook symptom of schizophrenia.
