"... so that by now I've got a string of names and
identities like you wouldn't believe. At times I forget what
I was like originally."
Exactly on the dot, like a cuckoo-clock.
We can, if we so chose, wander aimlessly over the continent
of the arbitrary. Rootless as some winged seed blown about
on a serendipitous spring breeze.
Nonetheless, we can in the same breath deny that there is
any such thing as coincidence. What's done is done, what's
yet to be is clearly yet to be, and so on. In other words,
sandwiched as we are between the "everything" that is behind
us and the "zero" beyond us, ours is a ephemeral existence
in which there is neither coincidence nor possibility.
In actual practice, however, distinctions between the two
interpretations amount to precious little. A state of
affairs (as with most face-offs between interpretations) not
unlike calling the same food by two different names.
So much for metaphors.
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