Galton Board
Drop a thousand beads through a field of pegs and watch pure chance pile into a bell curve.
Each piece is one idea, built until it clicks — then left out for anyone curious enough to play. Drag things, scrub the sliders, push them past where they ought to go. That’s the point.
Space pours into a black hole like a river, and the event horizon is where the current outruns light. Fire flashes at the edge to see what gets away — then drop a ticking beacon and watch it freeze. From the outside only.
Outswim the river →A photocopier that prints shrunken copies of whatever you feed it — then copies the copy. Feed it a square, a letter, your own doodle: the same shape emerges every time.
Seeds placed one golden-angle turn at a time count out 34 and 55 spiral arms — drift a tenth of a degree and it all shatters into spokes.
Why two people far apart can hear each other’s whispers — when the walls have exactly the right curve.
Stack enough spinning circles and they’ll trace any shape you like — one epicycle at a time.
One curve, many machines — and what breaks when you add a third focus.
Three masses, one rule of gravity, and orbits that refuse to repeat. Nudge a start by a millionth and watch the future fly off somewhere else.
Drop a thousand beads through a field of pegs and watch pure chance pile into a bell curve.
Coil the integers into a square spiral and the primes fall onto strange, stubborn diagonals.
Hundreds of selfish drivers pour onto one free shortcut and make every trip slower. Cut it, charge a toll, or rewire the city — Braess's paradox as a living network.