Today I add ten drops of essential Happiness —an oil with concentrates derived from ylang- ylang and the bitter orange tree— to a flask of reed diffuser sticks in water. We are halfway through the month, soon halfway through another year, and I know the old longings that wash over me all over again: for rest and love, the kind rubbed deep into the bones of the body; for words I can strike together for visible light. I'm told I should regard my existence as nothing short of a miracle—here, today, at my desk by a window overlooking the boulevard. I'm in the same building where last night, in a class on literary form, flashing alarms warned us to stay in place until the all clear sounded, after a shooting at the student center. There are scientists who have supposedly managed to calculate the number of probable times a human being with specific traits and gene makeup could be born (1 in 400 trillion), instead of becoming just another anonymous, missed connection; a serif, a trace disappearing in the thick alphabet soup of time. Or imagine millions and millions of tiny spiders slinging their ropes and carabiners, descending through an opening in the trees—You might feel only a movement slighter than a hair on your arm; but what chance one of them lands on the cheek of someone who'll experience a massive allergic reaction from contact with an arachnid, then die before anyone can figure out why? Hong Kong, 1988: hundreds of women near full term begged their doctors to induce labor, so their babies could be born on the 8th day of the 8th month of that most auspicious year, according to fortune tellers— which goes to show we put as much store in chance and magic as we do in science and numbers. Go ahead, play those five combinations in the lottery. Join another contest. Crack the fortune cookie open and read what the future has already brought: Destiny awaits! but first, you must nap or snack.