Am I over there? You don’t know. I don’t know. Does anyone know? Who knows? I know for sure that I don’t and I’m pretty sure that you don’t either, although I don’t know. Or do I? I don’t know, but maybe you don’t either. Bam. Here I am, right where I want you to want me to be, but in an instant, I’m still here. Have I confused you yet, Gurvan? That’s right, I was talking to Gurvan this whole time. Or was I? No, that doesn’t make any sense. Or does it? Of course not. If you think I’m ahead, I’m behind. If you think I’m to the left, I’m behind. If you think I’m to the right, I’m behind. If you think I’m behind, I’m 5 miles east of you, boarding a train to come and find you. But the train only has one stop, 10 miles east of you. “But that’s further away” I can hear you ask. “But I didn’t ask that, it wasn’t a question” I hear you remark. “How did you hear that from 10 miles away?” you say, wondering whether I’m actually 11 miles closer than you think. But you don’t know. And I don’t know. And all the ladyboys in Bangkok couldn’t tell you where I am for half a penny and a cheese sandwich. But maybe that’s exactly what I want you to think. Or is it? Who knows? I do. I don’t. I might. And therein lies the confusion. I’m an enigma, only solvable using the ten sharpest minds in all of Tokyo, France, and even they can’t solve the puzzle that is me. They may try, however fruitless their attempts may be, but you know that in your heart you never knew. You never knew a thing. And neither did anyone else. Because knowledge is a concept only known by those who know nothing of knowledge. And you, sir, know nothing of the concept of knowing anything. You cannot anticipate my moves. One minute I’m displaying mild signs of schizophrenia, the next I’m writing out a paragraph so perplexing the eleven quickest wits in Paris, Japan couldn’t crack it. And I know it. But you don’t. All of which wraps this all up in a neat little package, tied up in pretty little string and shipped to your house from a mystery sender. Who is it from? You don’t know. But I do. No. I don’t. You see, I was never behind this. I am but a puppet, my strings pulled expertly from behind a velvet curtain. The puppeteer’s identity, unbeknownst to me, was you. Did you know that? I didn’t. The puppeteer smirks at his wooden carvings as he makes them dance and bicker and love and fight and form complex emotional bonds with one another. The puppeteer sets his playthings down for the day. He is tired, he needs his rest. He approaches a mirror to examine himself. He removes his glasses. He reaches up with his hand and finds a fold of skin at his neck. This is troubling. This is new. Concerned, the puppeteer tugs at this fold. Why not? What could possibly go wrong? His face begins to sag and his cheeks wrinkle. He pulls harder until the skin around all of his face begins to loosen. The puppeteer lifts his face off to see what is underneath. A face grins back at him. A face he knows. This was the face of his puppet. Me. That devilish smile. You see, Jonathan, I was the puppeteer the whole time, controlling everything from behind the scenes. Did you know that? Of course you didn’t. I didn’t. You don’t. I do. You can’t. I have. You won’t. You don’t know a thing. Or do you? I don’t know, and neither do you. You don’t know, and neither do I. Or do I?