Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Words are a muddlehedge grovelling with who I am lo these many years. 'Whom?' I say to myself when I wake. To whom is it do I speak to myself?
But I have a name. At the meet-and-greet of my birth, my parents gave me a tag, a "Hello, my name is" blaze of identity upon my infant breast. ‘Free to a good home,’ it said. It still says.