The worst illness available to man
Is not a fever of sorts
But fame
And the expectations stored within
That he has been solved
That he has been called by his true name
Which, ironically
Is never true at all

Because it's better to live in a house of wood
It's better to build without a name inscribed
Than to be called by all
And requested at all hours of the night  
Because what then becomes of life?
When you suddenly have
All of that which you have wished for?