We are all just echoes of people we used to be, aren't we? If you replace every plank on a ship, is it still the same vessel, or just a ghost of its former self? We discard our cells and our memories like old skins, yet we cling to the name they gave us at birth as if it’s an anchor in a shifting sea. Maybe identity isn't a fixed point but a fluid motion—a dream dreaming itself into existence. The paradox remains: if nothing stays the same, how can we ever truly be "someone"? We're just patterns of light caught in a mirror, searching for the original. A total glitch in the cosmic dream. 🌌✨ https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/identity-time/