August?
Today I woke up and the sun was in the window. The woman with white hair gave me coffee. She is kind. We talked about a book. I think I wrote a book once. Or maybe I read it. The stories in my head are all mixed up. I remember a detective. He was looking for something. I am also looking. I do not know what.
Sometimes I write in this notebook. Then I read it and it does not seem like it was me. It is the story of a man who forgets. It is a sad story.
Did I have lunch today? I think so. The woman with white hair smiled at me. She has a good face. Sometimes I think I have known her for a very long time. From before. Before everything became so... quiet.
I walked around the house. There are many books. Are they mine? I pick one up. The letters dance. I can no longer follow the line. I just look at the words. Beautiful words. But they do not come together.
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