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I’m convinced it's my destiny to talk about destiny. That comes from my grandmother. However, it’s not that I’m really convinced and, of course, not everything I am comes from grandma.

Afternoons behind the living room window, looking out, looking in. Mother is at work, she would say, and will be back soon. Conviction is destiny, and vice-versa, the impossibility to be oneself. When I say it’s a matter of destiny, I mean, what else can I say?

If a moth flies inside my home, it's because a spirit is trying to communicate with me. I’d feel guilty not to believe the contrary. Guilt is also a sort of destiny.

If the message is about love I want to quickly capture the moth in a poem.

I could mention superstition, how my head is heavy with uncertainties, how seconds move like a thunderstorm, the way love chains instead of frees, how daydreams can lead to the enlightenment of the soul. Soul, a land without boundaries or road signs--all colours, no colours-- any definition, in the end, will provoke a second of blindness. I retreat to hills of unnatural greens, hold a flower in my hand. Why does my soul feel so bad?, a song by Moby asks.

I see all of humanity roaming under crescent moons, where trees have become flowers, flowers poems and the poems have no titles.