Not like slipping on unworn clothes with tags scratching newness into your flesh, etching reminders that this is temporary, tailored for no one in particular. Ingest these names that have been worn as identities, also not tailored for you yet infinitely generous in lending whatever they allow you to give. People who do this, we brand whores or martyrs, improvising differentiae.
Names are neither.
Saint and slut know what they give. Traces of leftover names just give whatever they leave, whatever you invent. Once I walked through an abandoned house, tried to patch together someone s story or maybe improvise my own. One curled photograph whispered fragments of a yellowed, scorched testimonial I couldn t translate. Nothing would yank its language into three dimensions.