Time (n.) is the greatest remedy for anger.
Time (n.) often cures the wound which reason fails to heal.
Time (n.) is our sole possession — Nothing is ours except time.
Time (n.) will not be our own until we ourselves begin to belong to ourselves.
Time (n.) flows on and abandons those who are greediest for it.
Time (n.) is the one thing nature gave us to own, and so slippery that anyone who likes can evict us from it.
Time (n.) is the one loan that even a grateful borrower can never repay — and the only one nobody feels in debt for.
Time (n.) flies infinitely fast, as those see who look backwards: "but a moment ago" I was a boy in Sotion's school, began to plead, lost the desire to plead, lost the ability.
Time (n.) adds nothing to the finer things in life; a man cut off young may already hold every reward of the longest life.
Time (n.) flies, and the finest days fly first — so why are we so slow to keep pace with the swiftest of all things?
Time (n.) does indeed roll along by fixed law, but as in darkness; and what is it to me whether Nature's course is sure, when my own is unsure?
Time (n.) can all belong to us only once our own selves have begun to belong to us.