Time

One said no to so much, one spent years on nothing.

The dreamer weaves the wings of time.

Man is in love and loves what vanishes, what more is there to say?

In a hundred years time, I expect to be sketched in black and white, and to haunt a house, visited by admirers.

I have lived in important places, times when great events were decided.

Through the blackest night, morning gently tiptoes, feeling its way to dawn.

The folly of men can ever be known in this, that they forget death, which cometh a-pace, and they remember not their latter end.

The world might well come to an end, but on the face of the sun it will always be morning.

A voice at dawn, or at the darkening of the day, calls out: I love you!

People— running about— wandering in the city of ellipses.

Time is the great vindicator of the truth.

The beauty of literature lies in its ability to bridge hearts across time and space.

You and I change, people change all through the months and years, but the sea stands the same forever.

We are travelers on a cosmic journey, stardust, swirling and dancing in the eddies and whirlpools of infinity.

I was lying in the garden and I smelt something coming from the window; peaches, peaches with that savour of old walls. Peaches were so golden when they were dead, they were like the colour of old church towers.

Life is something that happens when you can't get to sleep.

The present moment is the only aperture through which the soul can pass into the vast ocean of eternity.

Every man of us is, in the long run, sure to go through the same tragic apathy of mind.

You can keep as quiet as you like, but one of these days somebody is going to find you.

And every day, the world will drag you by the hand, yelling, This is important! And this is important! And this is important! You need to worry about this! And this! And this!