"THE HORSE WASN'T REAL UNTIL I KILLED IT"

When does a body stop being mine? If I cast it, copy it, multiply it – what is still real? If I cut it apart and rearrange it, is it still my body or something else assembled from it?

Where is the line between real and fiction? Is it in the material, the form, or the act? If each piece comes from me, does the whole remain me? Or does it become something constructed – something unreal?

Can it be altered without becoming something else? At what point does it stop being abody and become an object?