The days wear out the months and the months wear out the years, and a flux of moments, like an unquiet tide, eats at the black coast of futurity. - Mervyn Peake

The ritual which his body had had to perform for fifty years had been no preparation for the unexpected.

What is Time, O sister of similar features, that you speak of it so subserviently? Are we to be the slaves of the sun, that secondhand, overrated knob of gilt, or of his sister, that fatuous circle of silver paper? A curse upon their ridiculous dictatorship!

His face wore the resigned expression of one who knew that the only difference between one day and the next lies in the pages of a calendar.