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“Thinking of that summer makes me remember the one before. I don’t recall what I had for lunch or what I watched on TV this afternoon, but I remember the day I tried to free myself from my sorrows under the weeping willow and the following summer among the flowers. Why is this so fresh and real of late? I don’t know. Maybe something I learned during that time will help prepare me for this journey into forgetfulness—the path I’m forced to walk on. Time is stealing my memories.”