You swing between poles: one century you are self-effacing, invisible, a nondescript face in the crowd, forgotten even while they look at you. Other centuries you are a wildfire, the cynosure of civilization, a glorious polar star at the center of your own personal empire. Two sides of one door, you are never completely either, unknowable as deep water.

This decade you are deep-rooted and widespread as a fairy ring. They pass, like this one, this man brilliant as an arc light, into your circle not even recognizing your border. You seep into his lungs, into his soft tissues, and feast small feasts upon his life. He dims, just slightly. They say, who know him, that he has settled into his community: you smile inside their cells.

Death is wasteful, this century. You delight in populations, in aggregate. Porous bones, thickened skin, intermittent fevers. The water is fine, but they take you in with every swallow, every breath of heavy, humid air.