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My room was already small when I came here, but I seem to be making it smaller and smaller.
There is something wrong with my head. My whole life it seems to have been sorting out all kinds of information, all kinds of memories, without even asking me first.
I seem to have got it from my father, who is exactly the same. We just don't remember stuff.
My oldest friend keeps on telling me the stories of our lives. Stories that are completely new to me. Crazy stories, extremely interesting stories, that I want to remember. I just don't.
So I have realized that I need to write down my life, day by day.
So far I am on my second diary.