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“We’re not the same person,” says Jake at 29. “The self is transient, and every atom of our bodies cycles out within seven years.”

“We’re not having that argument,” says Jake at 48.

“I’m not you,” says Jake at 29, “and I’m definitely not–” He curls his lip at Jake, 21.

“Ignore him,” says Jake at 48, with kindness. “Your pain is real; your fears aren’t illusions. You’re living through the crucible that shapes us all.”

“But why doesn’t she LIKE MEEE,” wails Jake at 21.

“No one likes you,” glares Jake at 29. “And what the fuck are you wearing?”