The soul is like pollen: we remember it. (L’ me est comme le pollen : – Elle fait souvenir d’elle.)

The memory of the dead is indeed a good remorse. (Le souvenir des morts – Est bien un bon remords)

I live in a tourist town, and I hang out in souvenir shops because it feels like home. Visitors want to buy everything from postcards to my love, and I love that. However, only the...

I woan let you go back to that boy–not until you give me one bec doux.” A sweet kiss. Then he reached forward, unlacing the ribbon from my hair.”What are you doing?” I murmured.”Souvenir.” He...

Ever poised on that cusp between past and future, we tie memories to souvenirs like string to trees along life’s path, marking the trail in case we lose ourselves around a bend of tomorrow’s road.

The remembrance of a woman is longer than a tear. (Le souvenir d’une femme – Est plus long qu’une larme.)