'Think of it," his father used to say - "in a thousandfold dilution, the memory of a single drop of medicine persists and works its cure. Only the memory! In a single cell of a human being is the memory of the whole design. In each of us is the memory, however inaccessible, of the beginning of the universe. We are the memory of the dust of stars." He would press his forehead against Max's. "In you," he said, "there must be memories inherited from me. I know I have these from my father - black trees, the smell of snow, the sound of cossacks. Ravens."
from Her Name Was Lola
Happy birthday Russ!