"You asked me, once, what time was made of. It was an oddly profound question, for someone not native to Gallifrey. That particular knowledge is such an intimate part of us, contained in our basic cellular structure, always there, always understood, without having to think on it. Of course, I'm fairly certain now that you've lived at least one lifetime as a Time Lady, but that question was been posed by a pure human, a child of late twentieth century Earth. I wonder if you understand it now, the complex composition of time, something that is beyond the molecular, atomic, or chemical, and if that knowledge will stay with you. What happened to you is enough to set my mind spinning; I shudder to consider what might be going on inside your head right now."

Clara whimpered in her sleep, her pretty face creased by a frown. He leaned forward instantly, lightly tracing her features with his fingertips. She sighed and nestled into his touch, never fully waking.

"Someone on your world once said that life is not measured in how many breaths we take, but in how many moments take our breath away. You, Clara, you take my breath away. And if you were to ask me that question again, right now, I'd tell you this: to hell with all the proper scientific terminology. You want to know what time is made of? Time is made of moments. Good moments, and bad moments. Moments that you'd rather forget, and moments that you want to last forever. Moments when someone reaches out and holds your hand, or smiles at you, or -or hangs on to you for dear life so as not to fall off a cliff. I need more moments like that. OK, maybe not the falling off a cliff part, but…more moments with you. Don't leave me, Clara. Please don't leave me."

"Was I going somewhere?" Clara whispered, blinking up at him.

"Not if I can help it." He felt her smile against the palm of his hand. "How are you feeling?"

"I think I should be asking you. You look terrible."

"Funny…I was just going to say…you've never looked more beautiful."