The shine takes each face, brightness blurring distinction, slurring the very act of naming. Fires rise, lit by sparks spat out from the core of the sun thousands of years ago, delicately flickering, flavored faintly with the eternal. Identity something kept folded in a pocket. Identity something forgotten in a cab.

Summer begins as fevers, it ends as feasts. All the color refracted and nursed from every surface a clue aimed at origin. Genesis scribbled over everything sensed or seen. We sift and sort, unfastening the hinges, leaving the stuffing laying on the ground in muted heaps. We mistake differences for borders, and name everything as islands, forgetting the rollick and groping of the sea.

So I say come away with me. I say we can forget our histories, leaving our shoulders to worry about the warmth of the sun. I lead you through your confessions and my obsessions, speaking as we will of things we can not possibly know. Here, lapped by heat and the devil's wandering wind, I draw this mood like a sword. Here, bathed in blue flames, I tell you your life story, drawn from the core of arctic ice. I tell you what to call me as we willfully forget our names.