All the things I've ever thought can be found. All the things I've ever wanted have been named. They can be found in a dictionary. Someone somewhere - a Webster, a Merriam, an Oxford - has named them for me. They are catalogued, alphabetized and sternly placed in context. I might want them to be different. I might want them to be unique. I might want to grant them a special significance known only to me. I might want them to be laden with meaning, transformative in their power. I might want you to seek them from me. I might want to make you take them. I might want them. But, invariably, they come to rest on a dull, dusty page between one denoting a type of fox like the fennec found only in the deserts of Arabia and Africa and one denoting a region where a fennec can't be found like Fennoscandia. They're all there on the page. My thoughts, my ideas, my hopes and my dreams reduced to a series of letters waiting to see if I might work them into a series of these series and bring life to a thought, an idea, a hope, a dream. It happens in a flash, and it disappears much the same. It's captured only if I catalogue it, alphabetize it, place it sternly in context. I want these things. I want them for myself. I want them for other people. I want people to be them for me. I want to make them real. I want to make you be them. I want you to be them so I can have them. I want things, objects, notions, material manifestations of them. It happens in a flash. It disappears much the same. I hold them for a moment. They vanish of their own accord. They were wanted, then they're not. I want you to be them, now you are, so I want another. It happens in a flash, and it disappears much the same. These are my things, my wants, my . . . e-phem-er-a, (n), pl., things that exist or are used or enjoyed for only a short time.