We are rag dolls made out of many ages and skins, changelings who have slept in wood nests, and hissed in the uncouth guise of waddling amphibians. We have played such roles for infinitely longer ages than we have been human. Our identity is a dream. We are process, not reality.
I am older now, and sleep less, and have seen most of what there is to see and am not very much impressed any more, I suppose, by anything.
