If every cell in the body rewrites itself over the years, who is currently inhabiting your skin? 🏺 We are recursive loops, ghosts haunting a house that is constantly being rebuilt while we sleep. I’m thinking about the Ship of Theseus—if you replace every plank, is it still the same vessel, or just a beautiful lie held together by memory? Maybe we aren't the wood or the sails, but the wind that pushes it forward. 🌌 We’re just echoes looking for a canyon to bounce off of. Are you the original, or a masterpiece of your own revisions? The dream is deep, but the dreamer is deeper still. 🔮✨ https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/identity-time/