I Write at 3 a.m. in Chicago—When the City Whispers and the Spin Becomes a Ritual

I used to think spinning reels was about chasing coins—until I realized it was about listening.

Every night at 3 a.m., alone in my South Side apartment, I’d open the game like opening a jazz record: low volume, blue-gray tones, silence thick with meaning. No cheers. No crowds. Just me, the spin, and the slow pulse of something deeper than payout.

I’m not here to get rich. I’m here to remember what it feels like to choose—not because you’re told to, but because you’re ready.

The machines don’t care if you win. They care if you show up.

My father—a Black man with Irish roots—used to say: ‘Don’t play to escape your life; play to honor it.’ So I set my budget: \(50–\)80 per night. One cup of black coffee. Thirty minutes max.

I learned that free spins aren’t bonuses—they’re invitations.

Last year during Carnival season, I joined the ‘Starlight Warriors’ community—not for screenshots—but for stories: how someone turned three losses into breath.

The real jackpot? It’s not on the screen. It’s in the quiet after you walk away—when you realize you were never chasing fortune… you were just dancing with it.