All names fade away, of course. We can say that much for sure.
But there are many ways for this to happen. First there are those whose names fade the moment they die. They're the easy ones. We mourn their deaths: "The river ran dry and the fish died out," or "Flames covered the forest, roasting every bird within it." Next there are those who go out like an old television, leaving white flickers that play over the face of the tube until suddenly, one day, it burns out completely. These aren't bad, either: sort of like the footprints of an Indian elephant that's lost its way. No, definitely not bad. And finally there's the type whose names fade even before they die- the poor aunts.
I myself fall into this poor aunt state of namelessness now and then. Suddenly, in the bustle of a terminal, my destination, my name, my address will no longer be there in my brain. But this never lasts long: five or ten seconds at most.
And then you have this:
"For the life of me, I can't remember your name," someone says.
"Never mind. Don't let it bother you. It's not much of a name, anyway."
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