I found a book in the library today. It was like an autobiography. My entire life, every detail, written in the first person. I read through the beginning, seeing things were much as I expected, vaguely remembered details poured out explicitly of every second of my life. I skimmed the first twenty or so chapters, skipping faster and faster as I came nearer the present. For some reason, I was surprised to see even the purchase was written into the book; my foreboding, my reluctance to go on, all chronicled, every word telling me that I should stop; the thought struck me as I read of the thought striking me, to come here, to ask you for help. The text even told me what to say, so I will say it, here:
I found a book in the library today. It was like an autobiography. My entire life, every detail, written in the first person. I read through the beginning, seeing things were much as I expected, vaguely remembered details poured out explicitly of every second of my life. I skimmed the first twenty or so chapters, skipping faster and faster as I came nearer the present. For some reason, I was surprised to see even the purchase was written into the book; my foreboding, my reluctance to go on, all chronicled, every word telling me that I should stop; the thought struck me as I read of the thought striking me, to come here, to ask you for help. The text even told me what to say, so I will say it, here:
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