oh... hello, fédefo.

A name is, really, the least important thing about someone. It's an identifier, a lexical social security number. It distinguishes your head and neck from all the other heads and necks. It's what another someone would shout into a sea of heads and necks, hoping to see yours pop up.

Even then, some people have the same name. We're all born with swords against our shoulders, knighted into pigeonholes we didn't ask for. Joe: average. Jane: plain. (Don't even ask about Debbie.) And we all try to fit into that little square the way we're supposed to. Birds too small stretch as far as they can to fill in the empty room, often until their bones pop. Birds too large starve themselves or suck in their gut, but still they stick out. Also, they're probably stuck. Some birds do grow into their hole, as if it had been designed for that specific squeaker by an omnipotent carpenter. They find it provides the right amount of shade and light, warmth and cold, all when it's supposed to. Most other birds, though, learn to deal with it. They tolerate the chaffing and splinters in their sides. They bathe in the blank space. These birds might look at those birds and think of them as lucky. How fortunate that they start out in a hole with all that room, that hugs you, that's large without being lonely.

The birds who are really lucky, though, are the ones that figure out what the hole actually is: a square. Typically constructed of wood and nails. Constructed by some other, impotent carpenter. Sitting in its own square. Stacked onto another square-within-a-square. Creating a row of rectangles spotted with squares. The analog nature of their assembly ensures some are wider than others. Some must have lower ceilings. Maybe the one perfect for a particular bird hasn't been built yet. And maybe some birds want to live somewhere spherical, or made of steel. Maybe they'd like to live everywhere, if only for a moment. And just what were birds born with wings for, if not to go anywhere but the current moment of spacetime in which they reside?

So they do. They flap their birthrights, executing the most complex locomotive dance with the kind of grace that only comes with the absence of thought. Researchers have discovered that birds actually rely on drag to take off, positioning themselves so the force that slows things down is what raises them up. Meanwhile, it's lift—what moves things forward—that serves as their parking brake, helping to ensure a safe landing. They're the epitome of engineering/literature double majors: aeropropulsive poetry in motion. And quite frankly, birds don't care that you might think that a strange combination of passions. Whether you regard it as a waste of time or a unique marketing strategy aimed at potential employers is irrelevant to them. While you're sitting around wondering if there are any transferable skills between the two industries—and while I sit around writing this dissertation for my Ph.D in avian psychology—they're flying, eating, and singing. They're migrating with the flow of weather patterns. And wherever they land, they take whatever looks good to them, and they build a nest. Their own personal pigeonhole, you might even say.

... Wait, what's that? People aren't tied to their birth names, you say? There are pet names, noms de plume, and procedures for changing your lexical social? And what's all that have to do with pigeons?

Mostly, it's a convoluted segue I've constructed so I can identify myself. An introduction to an introduction. The foreword before the prologue in the book you're not even sure you want to read yet. I knew someone who treated literature like a frugal speed dater: if his interest wasn't piqued within the first few sentences, he figured the rest of him probably wouldn't be either. Time is a valuable currency, and none of us know the dwindling worths of our portfolios. I'm not sure how much you're willing to spend before you decide I'm a compelling enough personality. So, I guess what I'm trying to say is...

... oh, hello. I'm Fédefo. Not that it's important. I like long walks down the shore and getting caught in tropical cyclones. We should pool our assets and do both simultaneously. And then maybe corkscrew our asses in a pool. ... I mean, that's a type of swimming! We could corkscrew stroke! Errr.... Oh man.... How much time do we have left?

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