It is a strange delirium. to ache for oneself, to hunger for a shadow already dissolved. Which self? The boy who believed, the man who doubted, the dreamer who danced until dawn? Perhaps all of them, perhaps none. That is the secret. we are shards, splinters of a mirror scattered across time, each fragment catching a different light, each insisting it is the whole. And so we wander, missing ourselves, yet never knowing which ghost we mourn.