I look for the end of the future, but it never ceases to arrive. 

Our allotted time is the passing of a shadow.

Time’s ruins build eternity’s mansions.

If both what is before and what is after are in this same “now,” things which happened ten thousand years ago would be simultaneous with what has happened today, and nothing would be before or after anything else.

Nothing puzzles me more than time and space, and yet nothing puzzles me less, for I never think about them.

There is no work of human hands which time does not wear away and reduce to dust.

No preacher is listened to but time, which gives us the same train and turn of thought that elder people have in vain tried to put into our heads before.

The celestial machine is to be likened not to a divine organism but rather to a clockwork.

A watch is always too fast or too slow. I cannot be dictated to by a watch.

Without music to decorate it, time is just a bunch of boring production deadlines or dates by which bills must be paid.

This is Year Zero.

The past is always tense and the future, perfect.

Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real.