The place in which I’ll fit will not exist until I make it.
The place in which I’ll fit will not exist until I make it.
“If life be time that here is spent / And time on earth be cast away / Who so his time hath here misspent / Hath hasten’d his own dying day. / So it doth prove a killing crime / To massacre our living time.
If doing naught be like to death, / Of him that doth chameleon-wise / Take only pains to draw his breath, / The passers by may pasquilize, / Not here he lives: but here he dies.”
John Hoskyns | “Of the Loss of Time”