Short stories and the like.

Voices were ringing in my head—
Fragments of conversations; photographs of peoples' lives.
Small tidbits of information invaded my essence
then became lost in this massive melting pot of humanity.
It has gotten to the point where my own identity is foreign to me.
Do I have an identity, or am I just a receptacle—a shell
within which people throw bits of themselves
that they no longer care to keep?

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