Oh to hear one's name sung out, carried on a beautiful voice. How I long to hear "it's my Tyson-baby!" cry out from the other room, or a wistful "Oh Mr Jones" flow down a London alleyway. Just once more. Life stalls and atrophies without the nourishment of a "Tybabybich!". Its ceaseless thorns are pruned only by a "hi Tysie-boy", and the wounds soothed with "how's it going Ty-man?". A hole is left unfilled for every "TyTy" and "T-dawg" heard nevermore. 


Promise me, dear reader, to sing aloud every loved name that happens through your doorway. Of each, permute. Transfigure. And drum it until they feel the stamp on their very soul. Let each take a piece of you away with them to replay in the nighttime when nostalgia collects its dues. But know the gift is bittersweet; the infinite variations of every name echo long beyond the last time each is spoken. They feed an insatiable hunger.


Oh to hear that voice again speak that name, in its original affection, key and candor. Just once more!