Some people grow up believing that identity lives on the face they show the world, so they wander streets with nothing but the clothes on their backs and a mental map of who they are. In this sense, a person might carry a wallet full of documents—driver’s license, passport, Social Security card, library card, receipts—anything that can prove a person exists in a particular moment. Yet such proof can feel provisional, not a fixed essence. If a moment of misrecognition arises, the need for documents becomes a practical ritual: a chain of papers that attempt to anchor a name to a presence. The speaker reflects that, deep down, they may not be Juan José Millás, and yet the same name would have failed to identify them as José Pérez if pressed. Still, for administrative purposes, the name chosen feels real enough to function. If a police officer stops someone on the street, the request for documentation becomes immediate and unavoidable, a test of personhood in the public eye.
