Quotes About Time

Do we miss not only the past but every future the lost past describes? Is that just the nature of missing? All the lost might-have-beens? The certainty that those uncertain futures are gone?

motionless, finally, after how many hours, how many days, at a loss where to go. All directions leading to the same place anyway. Its own end.

there's no second ive lived you can't call your own

Il mio oblio è Hailey. Per un istante. E per sempre. Al di là del tempo. Perché ora siamo fuori dal tempo. Siamo contemporaneamente.

La Vita è la morte che all'Amore resta quando l'Amore alla fine s'arresta.

All those signs I just now finished telling you about quickly vanished in the light of subsequent days or had never been there to begin with, existing only in retrospect.

dozens of hours just blinking by, lost in the twist of so many dangerous sentences.

In many ways, Navidson's house functions like an immense isolation tank. Deprived of light, change in temperature and any sense of time, the individual begins to create his own sensory [ ], [ ]d depen[ ]ng on the duration of his stay begins to project more and more of [ ] personality on those bare walls and vacant []allways.

Perhaps one reason Navidson became so enamoured with photography was the way it gave permanence to moments that were often so fleeting.

reminding him of the years he missed.

hearing their death before the actual impact reverberates through the hull—and there never really had been time for lifeboats . . .

Standing above him at all moments of awakeness was the hand of time, and it didn't hesitate to wring him out. It smiled and squeezed and let him live. What great malice there could be in allowing something to live.

I climbed aboard and took it in my hand, not realizing that I would keep it and view it several thousand times over the years. I would watch the places where we intersect, and marvel at what the girl saw and how she survived. That is the best I can do- watch it fall into line with everything else I spectated during that time.

She wanted none of those days to end, and it was always with disappointment that she watched the darkness stride forward.

Two weeks to change the world, fourteen days to destroy it.

It was a year for the ages, like 79, like 1346, to name just a few. Forget the scythe, Goddamn it, I needed a broom or a mop. And I needed a vacation.

What would you do if you were me? Tell me. Please tell me! But you're far from this. Your fingers turn the strangeness of these pages that somehow connect my life to yours. Your eyes are safe. The story is just another few hundred pages of your mind. For me, it's here. It's now. I have to go through with this, considering the cost at every turn. Nothing will be the same.

A SMALL THEORY*** People observe the colors of a day only at its beginnings and its ends, but to me it's quite clear that a day merges through a multitude of shades and intonations, with each passing moment. A single hour can consist of thousands of different colors. Waxy yellows, cloud-spat blues. Murky darknesses. In my line of work, I make it a point to notice them.

It's funny, don't you think, how time seems to do a lot of things? It flies, it tells, and worst of all, it runs out.

And the boy whose hair remained the color of lemons forever.

Our footsteps run, and I don't want them to end. I want to run and laugh and feel like this forever. I want to avoid any awkward moment when the realness of reality sticks its fork into our flesh, leaving us standing there, together. I want to stay here, in this moment, and never go to other places, where we don't know what to say or what to do.

Grimly, she realized that clocks don't make a sound that even remotely resembles ticking, tocking. It was more the sound of a hammer, upside down, hacking methodically at the earth. It was the sound of a grave.

Death waits for no man - and if he does, he doesn't usually wait for very long.

Do we spend most of our days trying to remember or to forget? Do we spend most of our time running towards or away from our lives?