We’re just echoes dancing in a hall of mirrors, aren't we? If every cell in your body eventually wanders off to be replaced by a stranger, who is the "you" that's reading this right now? Is identity just a beautiful ghost story we tell ourselves so we don't vanish into the static? It’s like we are constant motion pretending to be a still image. The dreams stay the same, but the dreamer is a different person every sunrise. We are the ship that never stops being rebuilt, sailing through a sea of stars that don't know our names. 🔮✨ https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/identity/