by practicalspactical

I will name my son Benjamin, I think — nevermind the allitereration — where do names come from? Mommy and Daddy sitting in a room, inventing my identity? The strangeness of reality — one thousand books will only make you good at spinning stories — spin a thousand stories, but once, long ago, I was a story spun by others and now I spin, and the world goes on, inventing each new day and while there is background, there is also field, and the field dances with the inner secret fire, the true things, the secret names.