Are the secret police sneaking into my studio when I'm not here to move things about just to mess with my head? Is it maybe alien robots from the future using amplified telekinetic ray projectors? Maybe I'm slipping into yet another alternate world every time I leave the house, each separate world distinguished by subtle changes in the arrangements of objects? Or is it hostile telepathic interference from a higher power falsifying my memory of the supposed previous arrangement of those objects?
Did those objects even exist before I walked into the studio today? Did I exist before I woke up this morning? Is my alleged memory of a continuous identity before today merely a psychogenetic implant?
Am I I? If I say I and you say I, to what does 'I' refer? Am I you? Are you I? Which I? What is I?
Might be time to do another self-portrait. Just to check.
Hey, does that reasoning thereby make me an impressionist!?