A Quote by William Shakespeare

Minutes, hours, days, months, and years, Pass'd over to the end they were created, Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. Ah, what a life were this!
Our life is made up of time; our days are measured in hours, our pay measured by those hours, our knowledge is measured by years. We grab a few quick minutes in our busy day to have a coffee break. We rush back to our desks, we watch the clock, we live by appointments. And yet your time eventually runs out and you wonder in your heart of hearts if those seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years and decades were being spent the best way they possibly could. In other words, if you could change anything, would you?
Life is not made up of minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, or years, but of moments. You must experience each one before you can appreciate it.
Oh! how the hours hasten to change into days, the days into months, the months into years, and those into life's annihilation!
The hours pass and the days and the months and the years, and the past time never returns.
Moments into minutes. Minutes into hours. Hours into days. Days into years. Years into possibility. This will linger.
Let us say boldly, that if the total slum violations of law by the white man over the years were calculated and compared with the lawbreaking of a few days of riots, the hardened criminal would be the white man.
Success is relative and individual and personal. It is your answer to the problem of making your minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years add up to a great life.
Days, weeks, months, years," said the boy. "Minutes and hours and seconds. I don't know about any of those things.
There were hard days when you'd be screaming for hours and then the next day, you'd have a scene where you were just talking and because your voice was so stretched out from screaming for five hours, it would sound weird. It required a lot of adrenaline, too, so you have to be able to turn it on all the time. You felt a bit thin at the end of it, just depleted.
Life is short, if we are only said to live when we enjoy ourselves; and if we were merely to count up the hours we spent agreeably, a great number of years would hardly make up a life of a few months.
One year Halloween came on October 24, three hours after midnight. At that time, James Nightshade of 97 Oak Street was thirteen years, eleven months, twenty-three days old. Next door, William Halloway was thirteen years, eleven months, and twenty-four days old. Both touched toward fourteen; it almost trembled in their hands. And that was the October week when they grew up overnight, and were never so young any more.
I shall soon be laid in the quiet grave--thank God for the quiet grave--O! I can feel the cold earth upon me--the daisies growing over me--O for this quiet--it will be my first.
There were 10 to 12 years where I averaged two to three hours of sleep a night. There were times when I didn't go to sleep for two days, but I'd usually crash one Sunday a month for 16 to 18 straight hours, and then I'd be rejuvenated.
The show originally started out as a ten hour mini-series. We shot two hours and then were excused for a while, for no apparent reason. Things went very quiet for a time and then a few months later we were called back and told that it was going to be a full season.
My family is Jamaican. We were just the slaves that were dropped off over there. And at the end of the day when you live and exist as a Black person in America, at least to white society, to a certain extent, no one is asking where you're from and where you were born.
We are tricked by a phenomenon of time: hours and days pass slowly, but years pass quickly.
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