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This Shouldn't Be A World I'd Make A Move On, But It Can Be So Lonely To Play An Eccentric Genius à la Woody Allen Or Jean​-​Luc Godard, That I'm Moving On To Mimic Someone Else; Is It Still The Same Or Am I Growing Old In The Darkness Of Your Warm Embrace?

from I Was Born In The Eighties, Remember? You Might Be Older Now, As We Hang On Through The Night Like Locusts, Our Bodies Meet, And So I Can't Wrestle Heavy Drinks From The Pain, But I'd Die If I Ever Think About The Future, You Know I Could Be Happy Back In The Day, But Only If You Were My Friend by Wings Of An Angel

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Wings Of An Angel Israel

My own identity feels like a construct, a collection of roles and personas worn like so many masks. Who am I, really?

Perhaps in the end, we are all just characters in someone else's novel, puppets dancing on strings we cannot see.
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