November 13, 2020.

You are on your way to buy milk from the corner store but you, already a double-agent, have to take a call where you are blindly assigned by the division to investigate the organization you are pretending to be a member of. Naturally, your alter-ego is the highest priority target, as you have worked your way up through the organization until you are just below the unseen leader (who is he?)... although... you are beginning to suspect that maybe, that the organization has structured itself that there is only a figurehead at the fore, and the true leader is that who is just below him... you, or whoever you are pretending to be. To investigate this suspicion, you secretly coordinate with a reserve team of other agents within the division; some of who you suspect are shed identities of your own, although you do not recognize the names (but it would make sense that the names in an organization such as this would shift over time, maintained for appearances, in case the organization attempted to infiltrate the division). You attempt to go rogue and investigate the reserve team yourself, but the potential shed identities are shielded by the code which you, yourself, years ago, decades maybe, had established, and your resources are already spread so thin, by you, or them, or someone else, maybe. You are exhausted. You are too tired to even remember which of your identities is lactose intolerant, and you leave, to buy milk from the corner store, then you watch yourself watching yourself buy it, the threads in your head sliding against each other and breaking wetly as you peer through a hole in the wall at a man watching a man watching a man buying milk and taking furious notes, and you start to drool and vomit because you, yourself, are lactose intolerant, and the man watching you takes notes on this, filing them in a cabinet stuffed and overflowing and unwatched and filled with all your observations, or their observations, or