What am I, indeed? It is a question that has plagued me many a night, and continues to haunt me - oh, very much so, just like winter lingers in the branches of forgotten trees long after spring has broken its eternal promise. It is a dangerous thing to question, for questions require answers, but not everything you seek desires to be found. Your question, phases-of-moony, implies a static identity, a life preserved in death. Yet the self does not possess such generosity. By the time this reaches you, I will have become a completely different person altogether, forever altered from the woman I once was. To know me would require freezing time itself, but how can something that is frozen still be alive? I cannot therefore offer an answer to your burning question, but I urge you to shut the fuck up and go to bed its like almost 1am dawg