Everything that happens is a coincidence and all the purveyors of cause and logical sequence are illusion-mongers. The event is primary; the sooner we get hold of this wisdom the richer will be the succession of instants that makes up our lives.
Nothing that happens is probable. Say that analysis shows you have 1 chance of running into your mother downtown and 999 chances of running into “nobody.” Yet each of those 999 chances is distinct. In one case my (your) attention is caught by an Indian craft shop, which I enter, seeing a boy in a purple suit smoking a cigar. In another I get mental pictures of going swimming last year in North Carolina. The point is, meeting my mother downtown is — objectively — no more startling than meeting no one I know and thinking about swimming in North Carolina; they are equally improbable. Yet it is only in the mother-meeting — no more special than the others, no less unspecial — that our minds go to town and start to question the supposed plodding dullness of everyday life.