The Book of Lost Hours

A memory, once it’s over, is never exactly what it was when it was happening. Whatever comes later changes the meaning of it.

Time is the axis on which the world spins. Humans count their lives in months and weeks, as if calculating the cumulative measure of their existence will somehow earn them more of it. Accidents occur in three clicks of the second hand. Hearts stop in a moment of time. But there are things that happen in the space between seconds. Worlds are built. Planets burn. Souls fade into the space between one instant and the next and memories fall to depths, lost to the silence and flames.

Time is an intentional thing,” he told her as he worked. “You have to look after it and it will look after you.

It was the same way with the present. You never knew the future you were creating with your actions.

We’re linked, you and me. No matter where we end up, be it a country, an era, or an alternative version of the past, we’ll always find each other.

The version of the past we remember is often very different from what actually occurred.

Time is the beast that makes mortals of all one way or another. It takes everything, heedless of wealth or status.

It’s the place where conscious thought becomes a memory. Where the memories of the dead, and the thoughts of those still living, become something else.

We always feel as though we’re standing at the precipice of our lives, all our years still stretched before us. Not realizing that at any moment, something could come along and push us over the edge. We are all immortal in our own time. Until we aren’t.

But have you looked at the moon?” Lisavet asked, her voice soft, eyes wide. “I don’t need to,” Ernest whispered, touching her cheek. “You are the moon.

What could be so dangerous about a life that made somebody want to erase it?

For Ernest, whose memory I would visit every day if I could

It is the weak man who follows the orders of others without questioning. Obedience may make for good soldiers

The place where consciousness drifts when bodies die. It exists in the space between the fabric of tangible things, one moment to the next. Here, all things that happened on Earth linger in the form of memories.

We fill our homes with furniture and our minds with facs, but poetry is how we fill our souls. It's the poor man's medicine...the deepest expression of mankind. If you can read poetry, then you have already felt the shadows of humanity's most potent emotions.

is the weak man who follows the orders of others without questioning. Obedience may make for good soldiers, but it makes for even greater tragedies.

Not knowing the outcome was one of the many dangers of living

To know too much about the course Time is taking before it happens is to fill oneself with torment. Living is the most dangerous thing

Because it let them talk to Time itself,” Lisavet said in a hushed voice. “That’s right.” Ezekiel smiled and tapped her on the nose. “Time is the axis on which the world spins. Humans count their lives in months and weeks

We fill our homes with furniture and our minds with facts

There is no thought that has only been had by just one man. Some ideas are inevitable.