I am a collection of thoughts and memories and likes and dislikes. I am the things that have happened to me and the sum of everything I've ever done. I am the clothes I wear on my back. I am every place and every person and every object I have ever come across. I am a bag of bones stuck to a very large rock spinning a thousand miles an hour.
I can't wait to get my memory back. It sounds like I am a really cool person
Chess sharpens the mind, stimulates concentration, improves the memory and promotes visualization.
I love bowl games. I really do. I like it more than the kids do. I grew up a poor kid in western Pennsylvania, and I went to Nebraska because I saw them play in the Orange Bowl and I wanted to play in a bowl game. I cherish the memories.
I mean my father was killed when I was six. And I only have tiny, tiny flashes of memory.
For in the end, it is all about memory, its sources and its magnitude, and, of course, its consequences.
The most valuable things in a life are a man's memories. And they are priceless.
That you are not already golden word in our streets Already memories Your love fades Already Whether you are no longer to have perished.
Among us on the earth there is His memory; but in the Kingdom of heaven His very Presence. That Presence is the joy of those who have already attained to beatitude; the memory is the comfort of us who are still wayfarers, journeying towards the Fatherland.
We cannot change our memories, but we can change their meaning and the power they have over us.
Memories, pressed between the pages of my mind. Memories, sweetened through the ages just like wine.
Like many indelible family memories, carving a pumpkin begins with someone grabbing a really sharp knife.
There's nothing as beautiful and empowering in life than a memory.
Setting down in writing, is a lasting memory.
For me, the Internet is the opposite of memory; the Internet is amnesia, it's about today and tomorrow is another day. Printed issues are about recording time, leaving a trace and making it relevant.
I blend memories. I blend them into one that's funny. I exaggerate to clarify.
The world is a construct of our sensations, perceptions, memories. It is convenient to regard it as existing objectively on its own. But it certainly does not become manifest by its mere existence.
I listen to people talking sometimes, that great river that is language, with all its undercurrents of grammar and nuance, and I wonder how we all learn so quickly to speak it, given that we begin when we are barely old enough to stand upright. I have no memory of finding it hard. Indeed, I have no memory of it at all.
How could anyone stay sane with entire lifetimes stored in one human mind?
I've always been kind of surrounded by music my whole life, so my earliest memories of it were just hearing it in the house.