Eventlessness has no posts to drape duration on. From nothing to nothing is no time at all.

There does not seem to be anything to do.

Tuesday:
Nothing. Existed.

Nothing happens. Nobody comes, nobody goes. It's awful.

If you walk along the main street on an August afternoon there is nothing whatsoever to do.

Today’s laziness consists in lifeless motion.

No one, it appeared to Barney, had anything to do now; the weight of empty time hung over them all.

This November there seems to be nothing to say.

No more war, no more plague, only the dazed silence that follows the ceasing of the heavy guns; noiseless houses with the shades drawn, empty streets, the dead cold light of tomorrow. Now there would be time for everything.

This afternoon held that special quality of mournful emptiness I've connected with late Sunday afternoons ever since childhood: the feeling of having nothing to do.

It wasn't as if we were waiting for a train, it wasn't as if we were waiting for a meal - it was just that there were was nothing to wait for. Nothing.

The time when physically nothing is happening is equally important.

All the banners stop waving And the flags stop flying And the silence comes over Thousands of soldiers...

Hard work is simply the refuge of people who have nothing whatever to do.