My stern chase after time is, to borrow a simile from Tom Paine, like the race of a man with a wooden leg after a horse.

Time’s violence rends the soul; by the rent eternity enters.

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

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

Thou art not to learn the humors and tricks of that old bald cheater, time.