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:

X X.

In my mind it strikes a timbre most foul.  

“If I don’t write to empty my mind, I go mad.”
— Lord Byron