I was wrong. Those days are over, and they ought to be over.

My days are quickly spent.

It wasn’t my day. My week. My month. My year. My life. God damn it.

Days run out for me, life goes from bad to worse very soon, very much soon, times will lead to the end.

The light of other days is faded,
And all their glories past.

Why were the good days always so short? Moment to moment, day by day—each so full, and oh so lovely—and then gone forever, gone before there was a chance to absorb them properly, to really live them.

I didn’t realize it, but the days came along one after another, and then two years were gone, and everything was gone, and I was gone.

Like autumn leaves, bad days fell away as though the genius of the room could not retain them.

...because he came here on the wrong day, because he was born in the wrong time, because he had been born, it was all wrong from the very beginning, he should have known, should have sensed, that today was not the day to begin anything, nor was tomorrow, there were no days before him now, as there had never even been any, just as there was not and never would be a day...

The years are too short, the days are too long.

La plus perdue de toutes les journées est celle où l'on n'a pas ri.

With mortal crisis doth portend
My days to appropinque an end.

Sir, I look upon every day to be lost, in which I do not make a new acquaintance.

Mal te perdonarán a ti las horas;
las horas que limando están los días,
los días que royendo están los años.