Some days, I don’t remember who I was when I was eighteen or twenty two. Some days, I don’t remember how young I am. Some days, I don’t remember being hungry or thirsty. Some days, I don’t remember my mother’s voice. Some days, I don’t remember to hug my husband because I am scared he won’t return it. Some days, I don’t remember what a mundane convention is all about. Some days, I don’t remember to live my trillion carked dreams. Some days, I don’t remember ‘some days’. Some days, I don’t remember. Simply. 
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