I give out only parts and variations of my true self. If you gather up enough of my acquaintances, you might eventually be able to piece it together.
Until then, my identity exists only in fragments.
For every question you aim at me, I’ll launch back two. A conversation will leave you yearning for more, and having learned absolutely nothing. I cloak myself in vague answers. They hang loosely around my figure, never giving away its shape.
If anyone ever dares to declare that they truly know me, it will be the last thing they ever say.
Intimacy is vulnerability and it is the deadliest sin. I am not mysterious. I am a fugitive of truth.
