I am not sure if my life is a critique of death, or my death will be a critique of life. I have constructed an elaborate web of identities and tales, some overlapping of course, yet each person I met will witness one of them. It allows me immortality. Like all immoralities this comes at a price: Relationships have a lifespan, a cut off point, a severing when things seem to unravel. Of course there has to be separation as well, as two conflicting tales cannot come to collision with others meeting. Yet I will not disappear. Death clouds the memory and soon all will be forgotten; but a mystery, one that is enhanced over decades, one that riddles the very life of a person, that will be hard to forget.
