Not only do I have a doppelganger, but I may have a tripleganger as well.

My friends see me walking across campus, or entering a restaurant. But then they're startled, because it really isn't me.

In a town of 10,000 people, how likely could this be?

What was I doing? I ask them, fascinated. How did I seem?

How many of them are there? Who keeps the Xerox machine? (Will their sleeves come unstitched from climbing your tree?)

Today I saw a Mourning Cloak perching in the grass, ragged wings like handmade paper tipped in gilt, waiting for female butterflies to come by.

Have you seen me lately? What was I doing? How did I seem?

There's an invisible filament that glistens in the morning if I'm still awake, stretching from Point A to Point B, a glitter of nothing, tiny spider's tightrope.

Half of it's you, half is me . . .

Have you seen me lately? What was I doing? How did I seem?

You were dancing all night with wild abandon. I'm sure it was you.

The doppelganger ate Mexican and clung to a tall, frizzy-haired man. She looked to the ground when she walked, the way you do, sometimes.

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I did not note any doppelgangers.

I did note that we made that joint jumpn jive with the power of our Rock.

But meanwhile, it's like a mystical form of identity theft.

Be careful. You may want to metaphorically shred personal information.

Well, then. I am metaphorically Fawn Hall-ing it at this very moment.

"Je est un autre." --Rimbaud