I sometimes feel like I’m not one person, but infinite copies of myself stretched across time, like a concertina fold of character. And since I’m not who I was, then everything I do becomes an act of trust in a stranger, from past or future – from looking for my passport to writing this note. Do I trust myself? Not always, but I don’t have a choice. All I can do is do my best for the next copy in front of me, and the next, and the next, and hope they don’t screw up.