Change (n.) of change is impossible — there is no learning of learning, and so no becoming of becoming.
Change (n.) in us, not in things, may explain why things never look the same — as to the sick.
Change (n.) is sweet because it is an approach to nature; invariable repetition prolongs a settled condition to excess.
Change (n.) is sweet, says the poet — but only because of some vice: the nature that needs change is not simple nor good.
Change (n.) must pass first through the intermediate: going from white to black, you reach crimson and grey before black.
Change (n.) or metabole was the counter-appearance to constant presence, the other from which one could come back pointing to ousia — the kernel of an 'ontology' of ousia.
Change (n.) is never total: what is losing a quality still has something of what is being lost, and of what is coming to be something must already be.
Change (n.) always takes time: as there is always a line between two points, there is always a time between two nows, and every arising passes gradually through infinitely many degrees.
Change (n.) lets a great one slip in: the Ambraciots thought a small qualification for office was much the same as none, when small — and so it became none.