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Sunday. I took the post about the bells to Tomáš on my phone yesterday, to make him jealous of my morning.
He read it and said, "He's eighty-eight, Marta. You wrote eighty-seven last year too."
I said there is no last year on my blog. He took my phone, scrolled down, and showed me.
There is a whole year of posts from 2016. My words. Almost the same posts, on almost the same days. The snow, the věneček, the dam, the bells. I don't remember writing them. I remember living them. I don't remember living them twice.
He also asked why I wrote that it was Friday. Yesterday was Saturday. The market was open. Of course it was Saturday.
I've been reading last year's posts all evening. Some of them are better than this year's. That's the strangest part.