As you are, you see everything else.
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.
For what is a person without memories? A ghost, trapped between worlds, without an identity, with no future, no past.
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.
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.
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.
Franz Kline, who became known for his black and white paintings, did a whole series of gorgeous landscapes and wonderful portraits that may still hang in Greenwich Village.
The quality of a man's mind can generally be judged by the size of his wastepaper basket.
I challenge you to a duel!” screamed the cat, sailing over their heads on the swinging chandelier.
I really don't care with whom you sleep. I just care what kind of a decent human being you are.