Dr. Naesley.

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Now back to the story.

I used to love going for long runs before dawn.

There's something special about those odd hours between midnight and morning.

The hushed rustling of the sycamore leaves.

The golden glow of street lights and the foggy dark, neon reflections and ink-black oily

buttocks.

Everyone you meet on the street at such an hour has a story.

From the laughing teenagers swaying on each other's shoulders, to the couple arguing in front

of an idling taxi.

When arrives at those pre-dawn hours with their own personal baggage, everyone except me.

I can't remember anything that happened before my 37th birthday.

Even the years immediately after are blurry, like the view through a rainy window or the

face of an acrylic portrait liquefied by paint thinner.

George Taylor is the name on my passport, but I feel no special attachment to it, or to

the town where I was supposedly born.

When I visited, I didn't recognize anyone, and no one recognized me.

Standing in front of my parents' gravestones in the rain, I couldn't even recall what

...