History is a cyclic poem written by time upon the memories of man.

The chief beauty about time is that you cannot waste it in advance. The next year, the next day, the next hour are lying ready for you, as perfect, as unspoiled, as if you had never wasted or misapplied a single moment in all your life. You can turn over a new leaf every hour if you choose.

Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real.

The city is a collective work of art.