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SEE! I HAVE TIME. AT LAST, I HAVE TIME! Albert backed away nervously. “And now that you have it, what are you going to do with it?” he said. Death mounted his horse. I AM GOING TO SPEND IT.
He resolved to find out what was going on. And then . . . if Death wasn’t going to come to him, he’d go to Death. He had his rights, after all.
Belief sloshes around in the firmament like lumps of clay spiraling into a potter’s wheel. That’s how gods get created, for example. They clearly must be created by their own believers, because a brief résumé of the lives of most gods suggests that their origins certainly couldn’t be divine. They tend to do exactly the things people would do if only they could, especially when it comes to nymphs, golden showers, and the smiting of your enemies.
How could people endure it? They allowed Time in their houses, as though it was a friend.
JUST BECAUSE SOMETHING IS A METAPHOR DOESN’T MEAN IT CAN’T BE REAL.
Being dead wasn’t like falling asleep after all. It was like waking up.
A city is alive. Supposing you were a great slow giant, like a Counting Pine, and looked down at a city? You’d see buildings grow; you’d see attackers driven off; you’d see fires put out. You’d see the city was alive but you wouldn’t see people, because they’d move too fast. The life of a city, the thing that drives it, isn’t some sort of mysterious force. The life of a city is people.
May the gods bless them and help them, if they can find the time from their eternal family squabbles.”
Windle knew his fellow citizens. They’d go to look at anything. They were suckers for anything written down with more than one exclamation mark after it.
The reaper does not listen to the harvest.
