Time is a kind of river, an irresistible flood sweeping up men and events and carrying them headlong, one after the other, to the great sea of being.
Time curses all, I thought, except the truth.
Time touches all things with a destroying hand.
Time, which sees all things, has found you out.
And panting Time toil'd after him in vain.
The hour which gives us life begins to take it away.
You can count on time for two things. One is that it will pass. The other is that it will never shut up.
Time rushes towards us with its hospital tray of infinitely varied narcotics, even while it is preparing us for its inevitably fatal operation.
