My brain is an imperfect tool for the task of recollection. It's a flawed organ. Though it can usually be well trusted, sometimes it leaves things out, looses bits and pieces of detail. Sometimes, I'm afraid that it picks up random memories or imaginings and places them in the wrong place or order. I mention this not as a warning or disclaimer, but just as a statement of fact.
The truth is a great thing, a liberating thing, but it should never be allowed to stand in the way of a good story.
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