Who exactly is, of your own? Can you tell? In a group, there standing on the street, next to someone else, you look just like them. Better, or worse, you look like you belong. You are one of them. One of the very same as them (emphasis mine.) The guy standing next to you in the skinny jeans and the porkpie hat and the eighties t-shirt? The guy standing there in the top-siders and the pleated khakis and the windbreaker? The girl in the cocktail dress? You, you and you. Just saddle on up, take your number, buy your ticket, jump on board, hop in.