My name is a wall
I’m changing my name. Like most of us I had no hand in choosing my name, but unlike many of you my name pays homage to a bad man, and my association with him has come to an end. Oh, it doesn’t really matter that he was a violent man, responsible for the murder-suicide that took my dear mother from me. I’m quite a violent man myself. Violence is always with me at the peripheries of my consciousness. Waiting. Always coiled and ready to strike. Anyway, I don’t wish to dwell on that — his violence or mine — I won’t mention it again. I’m sorry now that I did say anything. I want to rid myself of his name because it lacks a certain euphony:
In my mind it strikes a timbre most foul.
“If I don’t write to empty my mind, I go mad.”
— Lord Byron