This is my story, yet it is not.

I was there; I lived through it; I did everything described. And, undeniably, I wasn’t; I didn’t; and I couldn’t have. So long as you can accept that, the rest will follow. If not, then perhaps it shall become clearer as my/not my story continues.

I don’t know where I came from. Records are lost, as they always are for those of us who live insignificant lives. The trick is that we don’t know who will be important in the future: a soldier who turned the tide of battle will be unknown outside a name in a list of honours, but the general leading a suicide charge that amazingly worked will have his portrait hung.

For all the words he wrote and fame he acquired we don’t know much of Shakespeare’s life; while we know who Samuel Pepys, a comparative nobody, had sex with and how and when because he wrote it down.

Much of "my" life was recorded, but not its origin. I haven’t deceided whether I regret that or not: I suppose I am grateful for what I’ve seen and heard, as difficult as some of it was for me to watch. Because of the nature of where I was, we know the recording was deliberate; that it was me is coincidental.

Shall I begin?

-From the released papers of Chance (AKA 2145M)

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