Walmor Corrêa’s Cryptozoological Anatomy.
I recieved a copy of my birth certificate in the mail. It’s the same glaucoma blue as the sky. I had forgotten my father’s middle name. Today on my way to work at the Dance Centre, I’m dropping it off at the police station, no army at my back. It’s the last piece to change my name officially. More documents will come in the mail, then my registration will be complete. My passport will have the correct spelling, the one my bank has accepted for the past twelve years. It’s a strange thing, crumbling my birth-name. I feel like I’m erasing a part of my parents history. This is somehow harder than signing papers for Heart of the World.