The piece of paper

I woke up that morning feeling very strange. I didn’t know exactly what it was, but I can recall that I was very dizzy. A lot, being sincere.
    The road to my bathroom was a real torture, I felt that my bed was flying over the floor; and the floor itself was like quicksand. Everything in my house was upwards, or at least I felt so.
    When I arrived to my bathroom, I found something terrible. I had an horryfing wound on my chest. I didn’t know how I get hurt, or any circumstances related to that wound. All I knew is, for unknown reasons, I wasn’t feeling any pain.
    Then I tried to recall what happened the day before, but my memories, as always, betrayed me as I could not remember anything of that day. I asked one white-dressed girl if she knew something related to that wound. She told me that she knew nothing about it.
    Then I returned to my bed and put this piece of paper beneath it, when I found another paper with a very similar story to this. Judging by the calligraphy, it was mine. I tried to get out of that room, but I found myself enclosed in it; and I saw outside a large quantity of white-dressed girls, similar at the girl who I asked about my wound.
    This is the thirtieth time that I write this story. Everyday I wake up the same way. Everyday I hardly try to go to my bathroom to see the same wound. Everyday I ask a white-dressed girl about it. And everyday I found a piece of paper relating the same story.
Today the story is similar and I only know that time passes counting the number of pieces of paper relating the same story.
And tomorrow, for sure I’ll wake up feeling strange, with my bed flying over the quicksand-ish floor, myself with that wound on the chest; but remembering nothing about the day before.