Who, you wonder, might be most easily influenced? You settle on somebody in a repetitive job—somebody bored, distracted, their thoughts elsewhere.
And so, to the post office you go. You eschew the people serving customers and head for a back office, where you find a young woman, a sorting clerk, sorting envelopes and packages into different categories, occasionally pausing to check her text messages or pick at a bit of gristle stuck between her teeth.
You opt for something small. You sit with her for a while, willing her to scratch her nose, which is perhaps not the most scientific approach; even if she does scratch her nose, you can't be sure it's due to your presence. Still, it's a starting point. You stare at her, willing her nose to itch. You speak to her, softly commanding her to scratch her nose. You place your own ethereal hand within hers, trying to coax that muscle-and-bone hand up, up to her face.
She doesn't scratch her nose.
You place your head in your hands in frustration. This isn't working. It's time to go.
You stand, bid goodbye, and head for the wall in front of her. And yet you halt before you pass through it to the street outside. You pause, look back at the sorting clerk.
As you do, she scratches her nose.
Days and nights roll on. Unceasingly, without the interruption of sleep. You still recall nothing of your former life. You still don't know your own name.
Perhaps it's time to choose a new name.