Library

I should have lived for a long time, and one page of my diary lasted one day, but after three years of flipping through it, I still couldn't count the pages. With a diary I should be able to know who I am, but I can't. Because my diary used to contain tens of thousands of words every day, and it was very dense and complicated. What was even more deceptive was the ancient prose. So I concluded that I used to be withdrawn and talkative by nature. I was an inconspicuous person. Such a person is destined not to be remembered. So do I still need to know who I am?

In dream again and again I was killed, in a different place, dressed in a different way, like a different person. Every time I would wake up with a start, sitting up suddenly in the night, sweating profusely, and gasping for air. I count again and again, Tonight, Twenty-one That dark shadow appeared in my field of vision. The sound of strange laughter can be vaguely heard. He looked at me. He raised the knife. And I trembled. Bang... I watched the black one fall into pieces. Another shadow replaced it. He sees me. Its eyes. It's a vertical pupil.