She smiles, and her eyes look as if they can see back into her memory, into all the things that have gone into making a person what they are.

Sitting on the floor, I'd replay the past in my head. Funny, that's all I did, day after day after day for half a year, and I never tired of it. What I'd been through seemed so vast, with so many facets. Vast, but real, very real, which was why the experience persisted in towering before me, like a monument lit up at night. And the thing was, it was a monument to me.

And here in this room, I re-experience the memories again and again it is how wisdom comes and how we shape our future.

Memory is the happiness of being alone.

The worst part of holding the memories is not the pain. It's the loneliness of it. Memories need to be shared.

You know the saying a rolling stone gathers no moss? I'm the opposite. I've gathered too much, and when one thing happens, it brings up everything else that's ever been similar to it. I don't just feel things once and then move on. I fell them over and over again, and the only new thing is whatever precipitated the memory of the old, so it never really feels new at all. Everything just gets integrated into one big giant ball...