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My old man gave me this diary when I was first learning how to write. He said that I would write my entire life down in it. And that with the last page of the notebook, my life would end as well. He was the last in our family who was fond of speaking in metaphors. I was very young then, and took his words literally. I wanted to live a long life so I rationed the pages. I wrote only in my smallest handwriting, rarely and briefly. It became a habit. But after a while, I forgot his words. For some reason they've come back to me now. And they unsettle me.