Accept that there are things in this world we can never explain and life will be understandable. That is the irony of life. It is also the beauty of it.

I have become a collapsing star, pulling everything around it, even the light, into an ever-expanding void. Once I lose all ability to communicate with the world outside myself, nothing will be left but what I remember. My memories will be like a sandbar, cut off from the shore by the incoming tide. In time they will become submerged, inaccessible to me. The prospect terrified me. For what is a person without memories? A ghost, trapped between worlds, without an identity, with no future, no past.

The palest ink will endure beyond the memories of man

A raintree bent towards a window in one side of the bungalow, eavesdropping on the conversations that had taken place inside over years.

To have memories, happy or sorrowful, is a blessing, for it shows we have lived our lives without reservation.

Moments in time when the world is changing bring out the best and the worst in people.

Die while I can still remember who I am, who I used to be.