I never know how to answer when a barista asks me, “and what’s a good name for you?”
“A *good* name? I know only the one I bear, the one my mother gave me. But a good name—a true name—what man can speak the true name of the smallest leaf or bird, much less himself? I am told that each of us will be given a stone on the last day, and on it shall be etched a name that only we and God shall know. Until then, who can claim to know himself rightly enough to speak the name he deserves! Would we like it if we could? You may call me wanderer, for I was lost, or homeward bound, for that I am. You may call me—“
“Sir this is literally a Starbucks”