There was only the cemetery itself, spread out in the moonlight like a soft grey hallucination, a stony wilderness of Victorian melancholy.

I breathe slowly and deeply. I make my eyes still under eyelids, I make my mind still, and soon, Sleep, seeing a perfect reproduction of himself, comes to be united with his facsimile.

I sit quietly and think about my mom. It's funny how memory erodes, If all I had to work from were my childhood memories, my knowledge of my mother would be faded and soft, with a few sharp memories standing out.

that's what I love you for: your inability to perceive all my hideous flaws

CLARE: The library is cool and smells like carpet cleaner, although all I can see is marble.

What are you doing?" Nothing. Breaking and entering. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.

I'm at a loss because I am in love with a man who is standing before me with no memories of me at all. (Time Traveler's Wife)