If we're to be judged by our parents and grandparents, then we all may as well impale ourselves upon jagged bits of rock.

Your eyes are beautiful," he said, and she felt warm suddenly, warm in the sun that dappled through the treetops and rested on them in patches.

If we knew a person was going to die, we'd hold harder to the memories." Fire corrected him, in a whisper. "The good memories.

Our own story is even more important for us to know than history.

It was just that she had the need to tell him something honest, something honest and unhappy, because cheerful lies tonight were too depressing and too sharp, turning in on her like pins

The more I see and hear, the more I realize how much I don't know.

...that's how memory works ... Things disappear without your permission, then come back again without your permission.