“Here I am discussing your past, and I don’t even know your name.”

She went silent. I was somewhat surprised to find myself worried about this person who, only a few minutes ago, I considered and invader of the worst kind. “You there?”

Yes, she said, sounding very depressed.

“Did I say something wrong?”

No. Not really. It’s just… She sighed again. Maybe one in ten knows I’m there when I jump in. Most of them get the headaches, and then don’t think about it. It’s been so long since someone asked me that, I’m not even sure if I can remember it.

“You can’t remember your own name? I’m sorry.” And I was.

No, no. It’s not your fault. When you spend so much of your life as someone else, I guess who you are doesn’t seem as important.

“Why would you say that? Who you are, of course it’s important. Your name is your identity. Everyone is important.”

That’s one thing I do like about musicians, she said, sounding somewhat happier. Most of you are such optimists.