He killed my wife. He took away my fucking memory. He destroyed my ability to live.
OK, so what am I doing? Oh, I'm chasing this guy. No... he's chasing me.
Oh, you're in a playful mood. It's not good for you to make fun of somebody's handicap.
But it didn't stick... like nothin' ever sticks, like this won't stick.
I don't want your fucking money. I want my fucking life back!
I always thought the pleasure of a book was wanting to know what comes next.
It's - it's kind of hard to say. I don't - I don't know. It's just an anonymous room.
It feels like maybe it's just the first time you've been there, but perhaps you've been there for a week, three months.
So you lie to yourself to be happy. There's nothing wrong with that. We all do it.
If you think you're supposed to recognize somebody you, you just pretend.
When I looked into his eyes I thought I saw recognition. Now I know. You fake it.
Enough to know how much you miss them... and how much you hate the person who took them away.
You can just feel the details. The bits and pieces you never bothered to put into words.
No, _don't_ just recite the words. Close your eyes... and remember her.
It's just an anonymous room. There's nothing in the drawers. But you look anyway.
What then? Love? What would you kill for? You'd kill for your wife, wouldn't you?
You know what one of the reasons for short term memory loss is? Venereal disease.
Will I lie to myself to be happy? In your case Teddy... yes I will.
Another John G. to look for? You're John G. So you can be my John G...
Can't I just let myself forget what you've told me? Can't I just let myself forget what you've made me do.
I'm not a killer. I'm just someone who wanted to make things right.
Probably burned truck loads of your stuff before. Can't remember to forget you.
You mix your laundry list with your grocery list you'll end up eating your underwear for breakfast.
You sad, sad freak. I can say whatever the fuck I want, and you won't remember.
I've got a more graceful solution to the memory problem. I'm disciplined and organized.
Anyway, maybe I'll take a photograph to remind myself, get another freaky tattoo.
Just becuase there are things I don't remember doesn't make my actions meaningless.
No, that's who you were. Maybe it's time you started investigating yourself.
So how... how can I heal? How am I supposed to heal if I can't... feel time?
I know I can't have her back... but I don't want to wake up in the morning, thinking she's still here.
If I could just... reach over and touch... her side of the bed, I would know that it was cold, but I can't.
It's like I've woken up in bed and she's not here... because she's gone to the bathroom or something.
Facts, not memories. That's how you investigate. I know, it's what I used to do.
We all need mirrors to remind ourselves who we are. I'm no different.
I was the only guy who disagreed with the cops - and I had brain damage.
I have to believe that when my eyes are closed, the world's still there.
I have to believe that my actions still have meaning, even if I can't remember them.
They're just an interpretation, they're not a record, and they're irrelevant if you have the facts.
Memory can change the shape of a room; it can change the color of a car.
I had to see through people's bullshit. It was useful experience, 'cause now it's my life.
She's gone. And the present is trivia, which I scribble down as fucking notes.