Time (n.) carries us through every day of an unillustrious life, until the moment comes when we have to carry it.
Time (n.) in jail makes days at once long and short — long to live through, but so distended they overlap, until only 'yesterday' and 'tomorrow' keep any meaning.
Time (n.) can be measured in pans of dried peas: every fifteen pans, it's feeding-time; watches are silly gadgets, and dear at that.
Time (n.) is not wasted if you feel every minute of it: sit in a dentist's waiting-room, stand on the slowest tram, queue for the theatre and then don't book a seat.
Time (n.) never went fast enough during separation and should be slowed on reunion: this hour of joy owes us compensation at half the speed of all that waiting.