There is no archaeological Wayne waiting under the sediment. I make the work, the work makes me, and I have never seen a good reason to keep those jobs in separate rooms. This is an essay about selfhood as a practice rather than a possession: life as material, the individual as artist, and why “find yourself” is looking in the wrong direction. Identity is not recovered. It is made through thought, action, contradiction, failure, and a kind of individuality that does not ask the category what to do next.