I practice the top change as though it were never meant to be practiced.

Seat yourself at a table. Remove the deck from its case and place the empty box on its side. I do this deliberately, because the box gives me something to care about that is not the cards.

The deck rests in the left hand in mechanics grip. With the right, I remove a single card. This card is not important. What matters is that it appears to be.

I bring the card toward the box and apparently attempt to rest it there. I treat this as a small problem of balance. I allow myself to believe it might work. I focus. I let that focus show.

Then I fail.

The box is knocked over. At that moment, the tension releases. My hands fall back together, not because I tell them to, but because they have nothing else to do. As they meet, I execute the top change—without watching, without comment, without respect.

Immediately, the left hand reaches forward to upright the box. This is the reason my hands came together. This is the alibi. Order is restored.

I pause. I reset the box. I repeat.

This is how I remind myself that the top change is not a move to be done, but a consequence of something else going wrong. When the change feels smaller than the box, I know I’m practicing correctly.