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

Time, when it is left to itself and no definite demands are made on it, cannot be trusted to move at any recognized pace. Usually it loiters, but just when one has come to count upon its slowness, it may suddenly break into a wild irrational gallop.

Our allotted time is the passing of a shadow.

Time’s ruins build eternity’s mansions.

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