Time is a slippery thing: lose hold of it once, and its string might sail out of your hands forever.
A weird time in which we are alive. We can travel anywhere we want, even to other planets. And for what? To sit day after day, declining in morale and hope. Falling into an interminable ennui. And meanwhile, the others are busy. They are not sitting helplessly waiting.
We are always in a hurry to be happy; for when we have suffered a long time, we have great difficulty in believing in good fortune.
Time was a swiftly flowing river that had no shores, no boundaries. Its seasons were not winter, spring, fall or summer, but birthdays and joys and troubles and pain.