Memories I had locked away have begun to break free, like shards of ice fracturing off an arctic shelf. In sleep, these broken floes drift toward the morning light of remembrance.

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

The palest ink will endure beyond the memories of man

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

Memory is like patches of sunlight in an overcast valley, shifting with the movement of the clouds. Now and then the light will fall on a particular point in time, illuminating it for a moment before the wind seals up the gap, and the world is in shadows again.

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

For what is a person without memories? A ghost, trapped between worlds, without an identity, with no future, no past.