I’d prefer the moth beating itself against the window glass not be an allegory, but probably it is. Who stands behind me with giant hands, wanting to help but unable until I abandon the impossible path? I feel ready to abandon something, but what? Which path is the window glass, which the open door? The house is full of bugs that belong out of doors, stink bugs and sugar ants and that large flapping moth. The power to fly is the most common impossible desire among human animals. As if somehow by being able to move differently than we do, we’d somehow know where to go.