Leonard picked a table that was empty, setting his tray down before using both hands to rub his eyes. He shook his head- Tired. Why am I so tired? It was impossible to know what he'd done the previous night, if he'd gotten any sleep at all or if he'd stayed awake, his mind too busy to give him a moment's rest. All he knew was what he had now: he felt as though he'd either slept too long or not at all, his body aching at various points, his head swimming. What was I doing last night?

He removed from his journal from his pocket, flipping to the first page, looking for information on his activities. He paused, taken aback by what he saw: a photograph of a monster, a charred picture, his own writing speaking of a murder from within the walls of the institution. He read the notes again- if it hadn't been his distinctive lettering describing these events, he'd have thought they were the disorganized notes of a lunatic. Then again, he'd been institutionalized for God only knew how long. Maybe he really had gone insane.

I'm not crazy, Leonard told himself, sitting down and running a hand through his hair. Whatever this place is... it's not me. I have to be able to trust myself, trust my own writing and these pictures. This is fact somehow. Proof. Memories lie, but these pictures and what I've written to myself- they're all I have.

Leonard pushed the tray aside as he started going through the rest of his journal, grabbing his pen in case he needed to summarize areas. He could never know how many times he'd read that sheet at the front of the book, how many times he'd thought along the same track, briefly considering his sanity; however, it was clear he needed to condense the pages and pages of notes even more in order to get the information he needed faster.

[Harvey Dent]