Again I encounter the persistent delusion that there is an essentialized "True Self" off in the distance, a block of marble which events chisel away at and reveal. Fah. Selves are just a matter of social convenience, to be shed as a snake sheds skin, or changed like clothes.
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It's easy to get privacy, even in a probing crowd, when there just ain't nothing there.
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Nietzsche fans kept staring into. Creepy.
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