One attempts an entry inflicting its literary impotence upon thee, if indeed a thee there be.
This isn’t I. This isn’t me. The first person. There is no thorny word for it or I would speak it, this. Yes, ywis. Yes, this would.
The thing I am at times does not deserve an I to name it. Am stuff scraped up from beneath the dreams had by one I used to be. An I, I was one time and meant to dream me into being even moreso. Meant to dream me into being. Meant to dream me into meaning from that sleeping, seething sea of streaming, steaming imagery seeds the engine of all being, being dreams.