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

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

Years are nothing to me—they should be nothing to you. Who asked you to count them or to consider them? In the world of wild nature, time is measured by seasons only—the bird does not know how old it is—the rose tree does not count its birthdays!

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

I look for the end of the future, but it never ceases to arrive. 

The past grows gradually around one, like a placenta for dying.

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

If both what is before and what is after are in this same “now,” things which happened ten thousand years ago would be simultaneous with what has happened today, and nothing would be before or after anything else.

The best way to fill time is to waste it.

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

In time history must become a fairy tale—it will become again what it was in the beginning.

Our allotted time is the passing of a shadow.

This is Year Zero.