For it is not the memories themselves. Only when they become our blood, our glance, our gesture, nameless and indistinguishable from who we are only then can it happen that in a very rare hour the first word of a poem rises from their midst and goes forth.
The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge
Rainer Maria Rilke
You wore a lemon green outfit that day
Or was it pale yellow
Not that it matters
etched in memory
Lara Fabian in Je t'aime!