Our allotted time is the passing of a shadow.

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

We wish away whole years, and travel through time as through a country filled with many wild and empty wastes, which we would fain hurry over, that we may arrive at those several little settlements or imaginary points of rest which are dispersed up and down in it.

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

Time rushes toward us with its hospital tray of infinitely varied narcotics, even while it is preparing us for its inevitably fatal operation.