Revisiting my own site, I began to wonder who it was that wrote all this. The self transforms with time, and every day he who writes changes, and with enough time even contradicts himself, and after a while may only recognize himself in a sort of nostalgic way, the way you may look at a childhood picture of yourself with a mixture of recognition and curiosity. Sometimes it is possible to walk through the rooms of your own home like you never lived in it. Sometimes you keep repeating a word aloud, and suddenly it loses all meaning and it slowly turns into a random sound, stripped of all association. And so it is that sometimes the familiar, the evolving self of the past may seem like something strange, and new, and occasionally, well, interesting.