Memories
“The leaves of memory seemed to make a mournful rustling in the dark.”
Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose. Every man's memory is his private literature. Memory is a child walking along seashore. You never can tell what small pebble it will pick up and store away among its treasured things. We do not remember days; we remember moments. Pleasure is the flower that passes; remembrance, the lasting perfume. We share the precious moments in the life of TKB.
