There is nothing you write that cannot be traced back to you.
This is my conviction, and I am more convinced of it the more we are entwined. One day, some day, you will not be able to keep 'me' from 'us'. If I am not already in your dense and intercrossing lines I might be soon. Or perhaps I am in those lines, but only as the grit that will be dusted off by the time the publisher tells me 'yes'. To him I present you, but you have already straightened your blouse and sweater, you stand smiling at the door, alone.
There are some senses whose reports and verdicts might come back unadulterated, again and again, as each person sees or each hour departs. But there are others which depend on the air, which recognise no lines or angles but only a space, which those signals they are attuned to will do everything to fill, even at the cost of all their own clarity. And you sit, catching every sound as your name describes, and giving nothing - not the sound of eating a sandwich, not even the sound of breathing.