Ezra Pound.
I like the name.
I don't know why.
It could be a girl, and a boy, both poured into the one person. A mixed-gender pancake. A fictional character who hasn't yet been shoved into an identity or a plot; the seams of his/her confines remain unstitched.
My Ezra Pound.
A pseudonym for an anonymous writer, who writes from the perspective of both a man and a woman, equally well, a social degenerate, and a skilled superior, a primally organic being, as well as a prude, and a vegetable.

My name, is Ezra Pound.
I don't know if it is a good thing or an interesting thing.

I am not here to confess anything at all. I just have a disorder. That's it. An identity disorder. I am different things to different people. Depending on their needs. Needs which come crawling out of their heads, and are shadowy behind the irises of their eyes, transportable through their pupils. I don't think I am the only one who can see them.

Wants come to all people like inevitable dreams, touching you softly in the night like clouds' fingers on the heads of mountains. They haunt you when you wake, they make you thirsty for their fulfilment. They make you thirsty for water, too, should you resort to panting in anticipation of the fulfilment of your dreams.

If you're silent, people talk. The space lets them open their mouths, gives them room to enter into the air around them their needs, their wants. No one who is alone will sit there and stare, relaxed, doing nothing. They feel uncomfortable, because they see in full bloom their wants, spiralling open to meet and fill the vacant spaces like flowers facing the growing sun. They play with papers, read, write, talk, concentrate on their food, fiddle with their watch, and examine the clogged pores in their forearms.

The boy. Ezra Pound asked the boy, Josiah, to write his own piece.
On the manuscript, methodically, he wrote the notes out c, d, e, f, g, g, g, f, e, d, c, c, c. He is correct in where he puts the notes on the staff, making a small mound out of crotchets.
We talk about the other students, flirting with life. I make the lessons into so much more than centred around black and white keys, naturals and sharps; I like to teach people about the spaces between the tones.
'Promise you won't tell,' Josiah says, 'but me and Emily are in love.'
A child, confessing to an adult. Magic.

I like to suck on other people's dreams.
'That's fantastic,' I say, my eyes blooming wide like flowers to the sun.