I’d ban all automobiles from the central part of the city. You see, the automobile was just a passing fad. It’s got to go. It’s got to go a long way from here.

I kept traveling down the road. And everywhere it was the same. What was my name, who were my people? What was I supposed to say? That my father is the president, and my mother...

I pass and I stay, like the Universe.

I sat up in the strange bed fearing it had been a dream, afraid I would never see her again. Not because I wanted anything from her, only her presence. The disappearance of the presence...

I think there’s a little confusion between humor and ‘gross’ passing for humor. That’s kind of regrettable, because they aren’t the same thing.

Might there come a timeWhen we stand over a graveAnd mourn ourselves?Mourn the past, a previous life?Shall we weep for the passing of time?Shall we grieve for unfulfilled dreams?In my naivety; in my beliefIn immortal...

I watch my loved ones weep with sorrow, death’s silent torment of no tomorrow. I feel their hearts breaking, I sense their despair, United in misery, the grief that they share. How do I show...

The passing clouds outside the window form the perfect backdrop for wavering frames I see moving inside my mind.

I don’t regret the passing of time. I try to live in the present, which should mean my life’s full.

Like a speeding trainI am passing by…I don’t knowwhere I’m headingwith whom or whyall I know is thatI will never, everpass from here againall I know is I’m skidding forwardon this track of life.

There are examples of fraternal dictatorships, or one, anyway: the passing of power from Fidel to Raul Castro.

Fear manifested itself as a physical presence that seemed to dominate the public sphere. Time almost stopped. Even without confirmation I could sense that something had gone terribly wrong.

All through dinner Arturo and I held hands under the table like a couple of kids, and that made the dinner quite wonderful, even though Mrs. Fletcher kept staring at Olivia as though committing her...

A whole Gothic world had come to grief…there was now no armour glittering through the forest glades, no embroidered feet on the green sward; the cream and dappled unicorns had fled…

Time is not measured by the passing of years but by what one does, what one feels, and what one achieves.

Passing On Opportunities Repeatedly”!