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

Our allotted time is the passing of a shadow.

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

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