City of Glass- Auster, Karasik and Mazzucchelli

What does it mean to bear a name, when you can chose to be whoever you want everyday? “I am born when I wake up in the morning, I grow old during the day, and I die at night.”
I am Alice Spot. Excuse me, that is not my real name. Perhaps you are the real Alice Spot, and I’m no one. After all, we can both be Alice Spot. Strange, huh? That two people can have the same name. We are all, and the same one. Nothing is real except chance, and we define ourselves within circumstances; we chose to be one thing or another at our own free will. I am Alice Spot. I say this at my own free will: that is not my real name.
Alice Spot. She walks through streets with no purpose at all. After all, there is no purpose for anything. I, I mean, she, walks to melt into the walls of the city, yearning to be nowhere, to be alone until she is nothing; no more than faint air in constant change, unable to be described with words, not even with a name. To dissolve into a dew, when words are broken, imprecise and false to be one with what actually exists. Or else, to consciously impose a new direction for her basic nature. To decide a new name, and, instead of writing books like the ones she loved, live out their adventures, just as Don Quixote did.

City of Glass I:
No one in someone's clothes
Walking. Walking. Any city is just a labyrith of endless steps. If you believe you’re someone, stop beguiling yourself. Steps lead you nowhere; every step simply serves to hold your own desperate fate, the anxiousness you feel about events that will never take place. Never. Everything you believe to be real is so simply because you’ve made it up in your head. There’s no other world out there that the one you choose to see in front of your eyes.
Walking through empty streets was never so pleasant as when you no longer felt the weight of your shoes, secretely pulling under every second it takes your foot to reach the ground. It was never so pleasant as when your clothes vanished away and you found yourself no longer deprived from feeling the smoke and the dust from the streets difussing across your skin, inviting you to become part of it. You were naked to be differentiated from everyone else; the city is the shelter you have built to hid your nakedness, your ordinary nature. Walking and walking without any definite destination, waiting for chance to propose a fork in the road and to mislead your steps anywhere else, is when your existance cleaves: both attaching itself to invisible habits and made-up duties, and breaking apart from everything else, isolating yourself in order to finally become the individual you have arbitrarily chosen to be, within this indifferent and hostile environment.

J.G. I mean, Alice, Alice Spot.