voice / text / image · 2026

Relative Identity

Man stelle sich vor was written as a work on narrative identity, particularly Galen Strawson’s account of episodic self-experience. Across four acts, a man fails to recognize versions of his own life.

Here, narrative identity frays into relative performance: translation, emulation, interpretation, the ventriloquism of dubbing. The poem’s subject becomes the experiment’s form.

One poem, thrice.

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Act

one poem three readings 4:03.885 each

Text translation

Relative Distance

Three English versions of the same German poem. Translator A saw only the poem. Translator B first read five of my works and wrote an author portrait. ElevenLabs translated inside the dub heard above. A and B were isolated, offline, and stopped after an initial pass and two revisions.

Translator A

poem only

I Imagine A man, alone in the cool glow of a screen late at night The photograph of a pretty woman and a small child beside a cold cup of coffee With cigarette butts in it, now that he is alone and the caretaker has disabled the smoke detector One more hour, he said on the phone, and abruptly hung up That was two hundred and twenty-two minutes ago He turns in his chair to glance at the city below him And looks into a pallid face in the special glazing That cannot be him, or not anymore He thinks

Translator B

five works first

I Imagine A man, alone in the cool glow of a screen late at night The picture of a pretty woman and a small child beside a cold cup of coffee With a cigarette butt in it, now that he is alone and the janitor has switched off the smoke detector One more hour, he said on the phone, and hung up abruptly That was two hundred and twenty-two minutes ago He turns in his chair to look at the city below him And looks into a pale face in the special glazing That cannot be him. Or not anymore He thinks

ElevenLabs

Dubbing v2

I Imagine A man alone in the cool glow of a screen late at night. The picture of a pretty woman and a small child next to a cold cup of coffee. With a cigarette butt in it, now that he's alone and the janitor has turned off the smoke detector. One more hour, he said on the phone and abruptly hung up. That was 222 minutes ago. He turns in his chair to catch a glimpse of the city below him and looks at a pale face in the special glazing. That can't be him or not anymore, he thinks.

Translator A

poem only

II Imagine The same man, on the trampoline with two children squealing merrily, a boy and a girl He looks across the expansive garden with its lovingly laid-out flowerbeds He knows that inside, at the stove, stands a woman who will not leave him until the children have moved out Who until then, and perhaps longer, knows how to keep her desires to herself or at least suppress them When the phone vibrates in his trouser pocket, he slowly climbs down from the trampoline and greets the caller as though she were one of his golfing friends and not the receptionist who moans softly when he thrusts into her from behind And as he passes the half-open veranda door, he catches a glimpse of the drooping corners of his mouth That cannot be him, or not anymore He thinks

Translator B

five works first

II Imagine The same man, on the trampoline with two happily squealing children, a boy and a girl He looks out over the sprawling garden with its lovingly laid-out flower beds He knows that inside there is a woman standing at the stove who will not leave him until the children have moved out Who until then, and perhaps longer, knows how to keep her desires to herself or at least suppress them When the phone in his trouser pocket vibrates he slowly climbs down from the trampoline and greets the caller as if she were one of his golfing companions and not the receptionist who moans softly when he thrusts himself into her from behind And as he passes the half-open veranda door he catches a glimpse of the drooping corners of his mouth That cannot be him. Or not anymore He thinks

ElevenLabs

Dubbing v2

II Imagine The same man on the trampoline with two happily squealing children, a boy and a girl. He looks out at the sprawling garden with the lovingly laid out flower beds. He knows that inside, a woman is standing at the stove who won't leave him until the children have moved out. Who knows how to keep her desires to herself until then and perhaps longer. Or at least suppress them. When the phone vibrates in his pocket, he slowly gets off the trampoline and greets the caller as if it were one of his golf buddies and not the receptionist who groans softly when he pushes into her from behind. And passing by the half open veranda door, he catches a glimpse of the drooping corners of his mouth. That can't be him or not anymore, he thinks.

Translator A

poem only

III Imagine The same man, bent in prayer, a monk Yea, though I walk, he whispers into his folded hands and feels the thoughts flow through his trembling fingers, as though he feared the evil that might befall him Thy rod and thy staff, he says and looks up, and his gaze cannot escape the bare cell Naked he is, no longer before God, now before himself His hands touch his shaven head and he feels the places where the roots of his hair break through the smooth skin He straightens, lowers his eyes, and beholds his withered genitals, the mole on his gaunt thighs, the fresh scar from harvesting blackberries That cannot be him, or not anymore He thinks

Translator B

five works first

III Imagine The same man, bent in prayer, a monk Yea, though I walk, he whispers into his folded hands and feels his thoughts flow through his trembling fingers as though he feared his own misfortune Thy rod and thy staff, he says and looks up, and his gaze cannot escape the bare cell Naked he is, no longer before God, before himself now His hands touch his shaven head and he feels the places where the roots of his hair break through the smooth skin He straightens and lowers his eyes, and sees his withered genitals, the mole on his thin thighs, the fresh scar from the blackberry harvest That cannot be him. Or not anymore He thinks

ElevenLabs

Dubbing v2

III Imagine The same man bowed in prayer as a monk. Yea, though I walk, he whispers into his folded hands, feeling the thoughts flow through his trembling fingers, as if fearing his misfortune. Thy rod and thy staff, he says, looking up, and his gaze does not escape the bare chamber. He is naked, no longer before God, but before himself now. His hands touch his shaved head, and he feels the spots where his hair roots break through the smooth skin. He straightens up and casts his eyes down, beholding his withered manhood, the mole on his skinny thighs, the fresh scar from the blackberry harvest. That can't be him or not anymore, he thinks.

Translator A

poem only

IV Imagine The same man, with a bottle of whisky on a balcony overlooking the immense city where he supposedly lives, at a sufficient distance from his parents’ house Far enough to be a new home The blood of an online acquaintance he had grown fond of and then grown weary of, on his hands The lining of his nose crusted with coke and ketamine, the acrid smell of vomit in the air His thoughts are not racing, he observes, almost amused He knows: he could simply tell his story, the way it all happened, the way it had to happen, all the essential events in their essential details He knows it would be a good story, he knows people would believe him and he walks slowly into the kitchen and returns with a glass and pours himself a drink, very slowly, and his hand does not tremble He leans over the railing, raises the brown liquid to his lips and catches sight of his empty eyes in the glass and a faint breeze is blowing and it has grown cool He thinks: That cannot be him, or not anymore

Translator B

five works first

IV Imagine The same man, with a bottle of whisky on a balcony overlooking the enormous city where he supposedly lives, at a sufficient distance from his parents’ house Far enough to be a new home The blood of an online acquaintance he had grown fond of, then grown tired of, on his hands His nasal lining crusted with coke and ketamine, the acrid smell of vomit in the air His thoughts are not racing, he observes, almost amused He knows: he could simply tell his story, the way it all happened, the way it had to happen, all the essential events in their essential details He knows it would be a good story, he knows they would believe him and he walks slowly into the kitchen and returns with a glass and pours himself a drink, very slowly, and his hand does not tremble He leans over the railing, raises the brown liquid to his lips and sees his empty eyes in the glass and a light breeze blows and it has grown cool He thinks: That cannot be him. Or not anymore

ElevenLabs

Dubbing v2

IV Imagine The same man, with a bottle of whiskey on a balcony, overlooking the huge city where he supposedly lives, far enough from his parents' house, far enough to be a new home. The blood of a beloved online acquaintance, of whom he had grown weary, on his hands. His mucous membrane crusted with coke and ketamine, the pungent smell of vomit in the air. His thoughts are not racing, he notes, almost amused. He knows. He could simply tell his story, how it all happened, how it had to happen, all the essential events in their essential details. He knows. It would be a good story. He knows he would be believed, and he walks slowly into the kitchen and returns with a glass and pours himself a drink, very slowly. His hand does not shake. He leans over the railing, brings the brown liquid to his lips and beholds his empty eyes in the glass, and a light breeze blows, and it has turned cool. He thinks, that can't be him, or not anymore.

Finding

The dub is furthest away.

92%A ↔ B · two literary translations

84.2%B ↔ EL · author-informed / dub

80.3%A ↔ EL · poem-only / dub

The two literary translations remain closest. ElevenLabs lands nearer B than A, but differs more from both—especially in Act III. Its 531 words also make it the shortest of the three; A and B each use 548.

The distance is partly functional. The dub favors contractions, plainer nouns and complete spoken sentences: withered genitals becomes withered manhood, bare cell becomes bare chamber, and the refrain contracts to “That can’t be him or not anymore, he thinks.”

What B read

The complete plays Floating and Hungry Mouths to Feed, plus published passages from Machines Writing About Machine Writing, The Work Ahead, and Knowledge, Testimony, and Technology.

Its portrait emphasized plain diction, structural repetition, long accumulation ending in blunt turns, banal routine beside horror, and very little explanatory psychology.

Method and measure

Three versions with unlike conditions. A and B were new tasks with no inherited conversation and no internet. A received only the poem. B received the sealed writing packet, completed its author portrait, and received the poem afterward. Revisions were offered one at a time; both translators stopped after Pass 3. Their accepted outputs are presented unchanged.

ElevenLabs generated its version once through Dubbing v2. Because the product did not provide a transcript, its wording was recovered locally from the audio and then used unchanged for the return performance. “Trembling fingers” was corrected by playback; the displayed text is a recovered transcript, not an ElevenLabs export.

Each percentage compares case-insensitive word tokens, ignores punctuation, and measures the longest shared word sequence against the combined word count. Highlights mark words that do not align with both other versions.

German source

IMan stelle sich vorEin Mann, allein im kühlen Schein eines Bildschirms spät abendsDas Bild einer hübschen Frau und eines kleinen Kindes neben einer kaltenTasse KaffeeMit Zigarettenstummel darin, jetzt, da er allein ist und der Hausmeister denRauchmelder ausgeschaltet hatNoch eine Stunde hat er am Telefon gesagt und abrupt aufgelegtDas war vor zweihundert-und-zweiundzwanzig MinutenEr dreht sich im Stuhl, um einen Blick auf die Stadt unter ihm zu werfenUnd blickt in ein fahles Gesicht in der SpezialverglasungDas kann er nicht sein, oder nicht mehrDenkt er

Image translation

Two procedures, four years apart.

In 2022, I described each scene to an early prompt-and-style image generator, produced variations and selected one for each act. In 2026, I gave GPT the complete poem—but not the earlier images—and asked it to develop the visual logic. It proposed a cycle, produced alternatives and argued for a final sequence; I rejected the first curation and retained final authority over the work.

The image panel from the 2022 Act I spread: an abstract blue office tower. — **2022**directed scene

Act I interpreted in 2026: a man at an office window above the night city, reflected beside a family photograph, phone and cigarette-filled cup. — **2026**negotiated interpretation

Observation

Seen together, the 2022 images send identity outward into four unstable worlds; the 2026 cycle contracts it through reflection, threshold, skin and glass. Their shared structures—the cities in I and IV, domestic brightness in II, ordinary space breaking down in III—were reached independently.

2026 cycle: poem, protocol, critical editing and final approval by Lukas Seel; interpretation, visual direction, image generation and first-pass curation by GPT.

Man stelle sich vor was written and first read by Lukas Seel. English dub generated once with ElevenLabs Dubbing v2 at 3/10 speaker similarity. Lukas reads the recovered wording unchanged. Relative Distance places that wording beside two isolated OpenAI Codex tasks; A and B used no fine-tuning and no internet.

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