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The present is all there is. The past is a fiction you have written. The future is not even waiting. The present is all there is….

The present is all there is. The sun sways permanently at its zenith, reluctant to relinquish the position of torture. Dreams have slipped into memories of what may be. The girl is in the garden and the garden is cool. She leans over you, touches you, and you can feel her touch spread through you like seismic waves. Her touch fills you. You take the girl like she takes you. You burn under her touch and the world vignettes. You explode.
At the height of the explosion, you realise why she can have no name.
And you realise why you have no name.