years

It was a mistake to think of houses, old houses, as being empty. They were filled with memories, with the faded echoes of voices. Drops of tears, drops of blood, the ring of laughter, the edge of tempers that had ebbed and flowed between the walls, into the walls, over the years.Wasn't it, after all, a kind of life?And there were houses, he knew it, that breathed. They carried in their wood and stone, their brick and mortar a kind of ego that was nearly, very nearly, human.

I had spent many years living with a plain piece of canvas just right on my face as a headboard for my bed. As the years passed by, I watched it slowly transforming into a work of art which still lives above my head. And that my friend, is truly living art.

The uncertainty wore on him. The conditions in jail--the handcuffs, the noise, the filth, the crowding--mangled his senses. It's likely that, if one must be incarcerated in the United States, a jail in central Maine would be among the more tolerable spots, but to Knight it was torture. "Bedlam" is how he referred to the place. It never got dark in jail; at eleven p.m., the lights merely became a little duller. "I suspect," he noted, "more damage has been done to my sanity in jail, in months; than years, decades, in the woods.

A dream so vibrant,A dream so blissful;I hold it close to my heart.In anxious nights,And days of hope;These years have passed solely.One day the dream to turn true- If only!

It is very strange that the years teach us patience - that the shorter our time, the greater our capacity for waiting.

Wherever they might be they always remember that the past was a lie, that memory has no return, that every spring gone by could never be recovered, and that the wildest and most tenacious love was an ephemeral truth in the end.

When the years are dying in the arms of your life,the earth is in pain moving around the sun.

Life isn't about the years you lived. It is about how you lived.

Live in a way that would not leave us regretting after so many years on earth.

The years would pass like weeks, and loves would pass too, or else grow sour.

People live up to 75, the other is just a gift.

If, years later, I do use the slit detector to observe which way the electron went, it will mean that many years earlier the electron must have passed through one slit or the other. But if I don't use the "slit detector," then the electron must have passed through both slits. This is, of course, extremely weird. My actions at the beginning of the twenty-first century can change what happened thousands of years ago when the electron began its journey. It seems that just as there are multiple futures, there are also multiple pasts, and my acts of observation in the present can decide what happened in the past. As much as it challenges any hope of ever really knowing the future, quantum physics asks whether I can ever really know the past. It seems that the past is also in a superposition of possibilities that crystallize only once they are observed.

Life may dawdle along in minutes but don't be deceived, for it will sprint by in years before you even notice.

Minutes turn into hours_that add up to days_amounting to weeks_that become _months_melting into yearsaccumulating for decadesto pile up for centuriesand ultimately form minutes again__ust on a grander, divine scale.

I have been an author for 20 years and an ass for 55.

Not so many moons ago, he had been able to run to the summit of the temple without losing a single breath; however, now he felt like an old camel that laboured under a load of corn. Years pass so quickly, and the dreams of youth are lost forever.

The most beautiful women in the world are the ones that can stand as rivals on the battlefield of love, yet they can still see each other__ pain. They can set down their swords for only just a moment to acknowledge the beauty of the warrior that stands before them__he passion, the fearlessness and the relentless fire that never gives up. It is in this moment that we learn that it is not the man that sees the worth of the hearts torn by battle in his honor; it is the women who have suffered for so long. Two women that can __ee_ clearly the worth of the other, even while they grow weary from their wounds is the only kind of beauty that matters. For if there wasn__ two worthy opponents there would be no war in love.

It takes a week to write a book, but it takes years to write a good one.