Memory They say that every story tells a picture, or is it the other way round? In my head, it looks different. Remember the rain and the puddles and the silver car that didn't stop? We’d been counting cars to pass the time. She was red and he was blue. I was winning. That's how I know. But she says that was a different day. A different game. The sun was shining. The man in the silver car agreed. It wasn't him. It couldn't be. He'd been in court all day. I’m sure I know, but I just can't tell.
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