First there is a terrifying scream tearing the sky. Horror from above, the feeling of an evil presence. It's the ghost of my fears, haunting my dreams, the insufferable memory. I am referring to the great crow incident, of course. It all started back in December 2007. I was in Bozeman, Montana (USA). There I was, walking from the university campus to my apartment at the Peter Koch Tower. It was one of these cold, bitter and gloomy day. The silence of the empty block was only disturbed by the crunchiness of my footsteps in the snow. My cheeks blushing, whipped by a freezing northern wind that the Gallatin valley liked to blow on it inhabitants. Suddenly I heard what will always bring chaos in my soul. The Crow was flying, majestically, with an hypnotizing movement. Deploying all his feathers, assured, with what we could interpret as being proud. I was captivated. Then came the shit. My jacket got attacked and the casualty was definitely visible. The attack had collateral damages that I'd rather not describe because this memory is still aching me deeply. The Crow, victorious, was flying, shouting his pride. At this moment I sworn I would one day take my revenge. My honor wouldn't stay unavenged. A stream a fury went trough my body, and I admit I started running after the crow, cursing all I could in all the languages I know with a rare intensity. Dear lord, I hope no one saw me that day, in that street because that person would have been stained and shocked by the absurd scene (or could have died of laughter).