Time (n.) is subjective, which is in fact to say that the consciousness of time is neither an act of consciousness nor an object of thought.
Time (n.) is not a river: the metaphor survives from Heraclitus to now only because we smuggle a witness onto the bank.
Time (n.) arises from my relation to things: in the world itself, tomorrow's water is already at the source and yesterday's a little farther down the valley.
Time (n.) is never completely constituted: its essence is to be producing itself, not to be — a time fully laid out before thought would be space.
Time (n.) is not a line but a network of intentionalities.
Time (n.) moves as one movement through all its parts, the way a gesture holds all the muscle contractions it needs: when it begins to move, it moves throughout its whole length.
Time (n.) as first lived is not a set of positions we pass through but a moving setting that recedes from us like the landscape from a train window — the crossing-keeper whisked by, the far hill barely moving.
Time (n.) is spoken of as a proper noun, sometimes personified, and rightly: it remains like a fountain, whose water changes while its form holds because there is one single thrust from source to jet.
Time (n.) is not for someone; time is someone — we must understand time as the subject and the subject as time.
Time (n.) exists for me because one sector of being is so close it never becomes a picture before me — I cannot see it, as I cannot see my own face.
Time (n.) is the affecting of self by self — the archetype of every relation to oneself, a being whose whole essence, like light's, is to make visible.
Time (n.) is no more my creation than my heartbeats: I did not choose to come into the world.