Time, which grays hair and wrinkles faces, also withers violent affections, and much more quickly.
But time has a way of stealthily deciding a person’s mind without her conscious knowledge, and as she studied and procrastinated, Poison found one day that she had come to know her choice.
What could I say? Maybe this: the man hunched over his motorcycle can focus only on the present instant of his flight; he is caught in a fragment of time cut off from both the past and the future; he is wrenched from the continuity of time; he is outside time; in other words, he is in a state of ecstasy; in that state he is unaware of his age, his wife, his children, his worries, and so he has no fear, because the source of fear is in the future, and a person freed of the future has nothing to fear.
Smartass Disciple: Which one was first created, time or things? Master of Stupidity: No things, no changes. No changes, no time.
You can never heal completely. The scars will always stay behind, just to remind how cruel the time was once to you. But someday, you will learn to see beauty in the world that gave you these scars. And your eyes will shine with no lies in it. That day, you become beautiful. With baring all the scars, Which you always tried to hide from everyone.
You can't make footprints in the sand of time if you're sitting on your butt, and who wants to make buttprints in the sand of time?
If you have sixty seconds worth of distance...run!
In the end, the wind takes everything, doesn't it? And why not? Why other? If the sweetness of our lives did not depart, there would be no sweetness at all.
Many years have passed since that night. The wall of the staircase up which I had watched the light of his candle gradually climb was long ago demolished. And in myself, too, many things have perished which I imagined would last for ever, and new ones have arisen, giving birth to new sorrows and new joys which in those days I could not have foreseen, just as now the old are hard to understand.
It makes me wonder, Do we spend most of our days trying to remember or forget things? Do we spend most of our time running towards or away from our lives? I don't know.
Everything started as nothing.
There is nowhere morning does not go.
A true friend is one you can go extended periods without seeing or talking to, yet the moment that you are back in touch, it's like no time has passed at all.
In the darkness of night, Demons strut, taunting, goading. In the light of day, Angels sing glorious songs. In the time in between, We live our lives alone and searching. And sometimes, softly, You understand damnation. All is forgotten, all is lost, All but forgiveness And the memory of her kiss.
No life goes past so swiftly as an eventless one, no clock spins like a clock whose days are all alike.
El Tiempo no tiene una sino sus muchas ruedas. Una rueda para las criaturas de corazón lento, y otra para las de corazón apresurado. Ruedas para las criaturas que envejecen lentamente, ruedas para las que se hacen viejas con el día.
You live as if you were destined to live forever, no thought of your frailty ever enters your head, of how much time has already gone by you take no heed. You squander time as if you drew from a full and abundant supply, so all the while that day which you bestow on some person or thing is perhaps your last. You have all the fears of mortals and all the desires of immortals… What foolish forgetfulness of mortality to defer wise resolutions to the fiftieth or sixtieth year, and to intend to begin life at a point to which few have attained.
a life can change in a tenth of a second. or sometimes it can take 70 years.
It's so egotistical to believe that we know more about someone else's reality than they do, and such a waste of time.
The huge round lunar clock was a gristmill. Shake down all the grains of Time—the big grains of centuries, and the small grains of years, and the tiny grains of hours and minutes—and the clock pulverized them, slid Time silently out in all directions in a fine pollen, carried by cold winds to blanket the town like dust, everywhere. Spores from that clock lodged in your flesh to wrinkle it, to grow bones to monstrous size, to burst feet from shoes like turnips. Oh, how that great machine…dispensed Time in blowing weathers.
