Since you remain reluctant, let us imagine
that one’s selfhood is a work of art — a maquette
in clay, as may be, and each life event
enacted by the sculptor. In he creeps
to the damp-room on his crepe-soled shoes
again and again. In time the work proceeds
via a series of flukes and inspirations:
the sculptor warms to his task; the clay responds
with little sucking sounds until it is wrapped
and laid for next time on its wooden shelf.