This is the truth: there is no you. Not now, not for some time now. Nothing but caricatures, carbon copies. Living, I called this. Moving on, I’d say. A little inside joke of mine, a little lie to laugh at over wine. And what becomes of me? Living in the background, whispering my secrets in the wind. You, I always crone. Only you, I sigh. Forever. But there is no you, nothing of you, here.