amnesia

A parcel was left on the front stoop of a local blacksmith's home, wrapped neatly in a thick cloth and tied with ribbon. It was heavy, and there were four leather bound books within. They were quite worn, and the finish on the leather was no longer smooth. Some of the pages were damaged by water and crinkled as they were turned. Others were unreadable, either because they had been torn, or spilled on, or because the penmanship was hurried and illegible.
They are numbered, but there is a question mark next to the one labeled with a numeral one.

There is a thick and daunting darkness beyond the layers of spaced trees. Trunks that reach up, and the further back from sight they are, the more their canopies join in the void of night, dancing softly unseen in the twilight breeze. Oh, yes, indeed it is dark here. 

The man struggled to open his eyes. He hurt everywhere. Groaning, he lifted himself up on his elbow and began feeling for broken bones. It was dark, very dark. It appeared he was in a cave. The surface beneath him was gravely, and he could vaguely make out the nearby walls. As he turned to see if he could make out which way would lead him out, he stifled a groan. His body was badly bruised, but, thankfully, nothing seemed to be broken.

I feel strange, writing in this book.  It's like I've taken someone elses thoughts, their personal, private thoughts, and am now writing my own right next to them.  But my handwriting is the same.  My language is the same.