Who are you, really? Not who do you say you are, or who others say you are or should be, but who are you, really: who is the you who says and hears what others are saying? I am a white male Jewish American, but the me that knows this isn’t any of these things. I am currently sitting on a wooden Adirondack chair overlooking the Cumberland Plateau, but the me that knows this isn’t sitting anywhere. The me that knows cannot be known; it has no attributes; it has no substance; it isn’t a thing but a knowing. But what is it if there is nothing to know? What is it—who am I—if there is no content to know? Can the knowing that knows everything be forever unknown?