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For so long I've kept a record without recollecting why. I guess I thought that I would check it when there was nowhere else to try. I keep flipping through the pages as if the secrets that they tell had come from stranger elder sages, not just a version of myself.
Oh, so then tell me what I knew, that it could somehow help me today, and further, tell me what I know now, but won't know I knew it till I use it when I finally read what I wrote down.
Mister, I'd appreciate to have the chance to demonstrate the wisdom I've accrued: I think you'd find it truly useful. I just need a moment to go through all these notebooks, won't be any time at all, oh, mister, where'd you go?
Oh, so then tell me...
It's like it didn't happen if I didn't have a pen. The pen might be the last thing I've got left. I could've had your heart if I'd been smart about it then. Instead I had to be an ass and go and use my head. It betrayed me yet again.
Box the books and ship them cross the country to the site where you've decided that it's finally time you set up your new life. Put them on the bookshelf in your empty residence, open one at random, ask where everybody went.