Perhaps there really is a tomorrow. Perhaps tomorrow is not just a myth. Only time will tell.

Creation is the creator--in part or in whole or in some other association: negative, opposite, or simply reflexive. Then whose stories should I believe? I have to find a story whose creator lived a life like mine, in dreams, in aspiration, in suffering, in joy. Rule out the mighty. Rule out the selfless sufferers. Rule out the truly vile. Rule out the pious. Rule out the messiahs. Rule out the ordinary. Rule out...

Yes, yes I am bordering on the absurd now. I have sifted through the storytellers and their stories and yet there is nowhere I belong: no creator, no creation does me justice. I am at the mercy of figments; yes, a moment here, a glimpse there, a far-away resemblance to my life. But nothing as hideous, as multiple, as indescribable as my own. Was there ever anyone recorded who stood every morning and looked in the mirror to find a new person?

I stand here every morning like a stunned midwife, examining my moist loins. Do I give birth to a new myself every morning? I do. That is the answer, maddening and unacceptable and true: I birth a new 'I' every morning.

Now tell me if this story has been told: this 'I' about many 'I's, these many 'I's.