Five years have gone since my subjective notes filled my diary. Now that I lie on my stretcher and read the past it takes me back to my travels. Mental pictures of fine observations.

Pieces of stories and pieces of poetry. All these memories are silent witnesses of the living me interacting with others. I realize that I am small, and my influence is small. Nonetheless I can write what I feel and what I can account for. We are all witnesses and my diary is my life written on to the hand of God.

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