Time is a veil interposed between God and ourselves, as our eyelid is between our eye and the light.

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

The appointed thing comes at the appointed time in the appointed way.

No preacher is listened to but time, which gives us the same train and turn of thought that elder people have in vain tried to put into our heads before.

This is Year Zero.

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

Our allotted time is the passing of a shadow.

Thou art not to learn the humors and tricks of that old bald cheater, time.

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

The best way to fill time is to waste it.

 Do not lessen the time of following desire, for the wasting of time is an abomination to the spirit.

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

I’ve been on a calendar, but never on time.