Memory... is the diary that we all carry about with us.
Memories, even bittersweet ones, are better than nothing.
Memories are bullets. Some whiz by and only spook you. Others tear you open and leave you in pieces.
In the end, we all become stories.
It's a poor sort of memory that only works backwards.
The only real treasure is in your head. Memories are better than diamonds and nobody can steal them from you.
The memories we create are the architecture of our identity.
The things I remember best are the things I shouldn't do.
Memories are the treasures that we keep locked deep within the storehouse of our souls, to keep our hearts warm when we are lonely.
The past beats inside me like a second heart.
Memories are like moonbeams; we do with them what we will.
The only paradise is paradise lost.
Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart.
The worst part of holding the memories is not the pain. It's the loneliness of it. Memories need to be shared.
We do not remember days, we remember moments.
The past is never where you think you left it.