Even after you die,
There is a you that exists outside you,
You don't get to ask why,
It just floats there outside of your control,
Created by others,
A different one for each mind you meet,
Or by those who hear of your adventures,
None of them are any less real than you,
In so far as effect,
No one's been able to create themselves,
As others make them, yet,
So, what to do,
Not care what people see?
If you do that, you destroy the one you,
You wish existed in reality.
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