Miracles. Events with astronomical odds of occurring, like oxygen turning into gold. I’ve longed to witness such an event, and yet I neglect that in human coupling, millions upon millions of cells compete to create life, for generation after generation until -- against unfathomable odds, it’s you. Only you that emerged. To distill so specific a form, from all that chaos.
Vastra: The Doctor does not discuss his secrets with anyone, my dear. If you’re still entertaining the idea that you’re an exception to this rule, ask yourself one question: what is his name? River: Well, I know it. Clara: What, you know his name? He told you? [x]