There is no me;
just a copy of a copy,
and then the curtain lifts
but there is still nothing.
Without my spine,
made out of broken parts,
a collage glued together
which, with first wind, breaks apart.
There is no me;
just a second-hand montage
conjured by a lifetime of shameless espionage.
Me is somebody else,
100 people melted into one,
1000 characters taken apart and forever undone.
There is no me,
there was never a me,
there will never be,
there was never meant to be
a real me.
Just a copy of a copy
of a copy.
Back to the animal;
which is I.
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