Surely the glory of journalism is its transience.

I beg you to believe that life is not a process, it's a drama

Nor love thy life, nor hate; but what thou liv'st Live well, how long or short permit to Heaven.

All of me then shall die: let this appease The doubt, since human reach no further knows.

People nowadays take time far more seriously than eternity. — Thomas Kelly

Days, pale slices between nights, they blend, not exactly alike, transparencies so lightly tinted that only stacked all together do they darken to a fatal shade.

How many more, I must ask myself, such perfect ends of Augusts will I witness?

This life is the one to be lived now, that much is crystal-clear. What did Thoreau supposedly say—'One world at a time'?

There always comes in September a parched brightness to the air that hits Rabbit two ways, smelling of apples and blackboard dust and marking the return to school and work in earnest, but then again reminding him he's suffered another promotion, taken another step up the stairs that has darkness at the head.

The reel of your real life unwound only once.

That a marriage ends is less than ideal; but all things end under heaven, and if temporality is held to be invalidating, then nothing real succeeds.

God save us from ever ending, though billions have./ The world is blanketed by foregone deaths,/ small beads of ego, bright with appetite,/ whose pin-sized prick of light winked out,/ bequeathing Earth a jagged coral shelf/ unseen beneath the black unheeding waves.