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

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

The past is always tense and the future, perfect.

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

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