There is an idea of an Attack Fridge. Some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me. Only an entity, something illusory, and though i can hide my cold gaze and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable, I simply am not there.
I am a Snail, crawling along the edge of a Straight Razor. That is my dream, that is my nightmare.