"I am old now Frodo, I'm not the same hobbit I once was..."
Bilbo sat there staring at the sketch with a soft smile on his face.
"It seems so long ago since I was a young man, opening that door and finding those dwarves on the other side."
"I write this memoir not to boast of my adventures, my boy. I write because I am afraid. Afraid of losing all those precious memories of my journey, the places I had seen, and the people I had met. Of Rivendell and Lord Elrond, The Misty Mountains and my meeting with Gollum, The Carrock and the Great Eagles, Beorn the skin-changer and his lovely home, Mirkwood and my run-in with Shelob. Sneaking through the Elf-king's lair, riding the barrels, of going to Laketown and meeting Bard the Bowman, and the one person I still grieve for to this day. The dwarf prince who had helped me find my courage."
"Thorin Oakenshield."
"I have lost the years, my dear Frodo, lost them in orders of magnitude. Only here will I be able to look back and remember them in whole and smile, secure in the fact that I have not lost the years, but kept them safe."