One-year-old me is seven-year-old you.
Two-year-old me is eight-year-old you.
I am you, you are me. A ready-made with its beginning and end already determined.
“Who are you?”
And then, all of a sudden, ‘you’ appeared in front of ‘me’ and asked.
“I am you.”
I answered, like they had instructed me.
My existence is as your duplicate. I exist here to fill the empty void you can’t fill.
“No, I don’t think that’s it.”
‘I’ said to ‘myself’.
“You aren’t me. ‘You’ are just ‘you’.”
As I did so, ‘I’ hugged ‘myself’.
“Your name is… Hmm, what would be good? Hmm, yes! From now on, your name is…”
-Dorothy.
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