I stopped counting a few days after I was hospitalized. Counting is something you do when you want to get out, or you think there's a hope of getting out. The trees and leaves far off outside the window looked like a colorful painting, so I knew that not much time had passed. At most, slightly more than a month had passed. Because of the medicine, everything was boring and dull. Even so, today was a special day. The kind of day you have to write in a diary, if you keep one. But I don't keep a diary. Today, I lied for the first time. I looked into the doctor's eyes and pretended to be gloomy.
"I don't remember a thing."