Time would be precious from now on. It would tick by, of course, as it always had, but Harvey was determined he wouldn’t waste it with sighs and complaints. He’d fill every moment with the seasons he’d found in his heart. Hopes like birds on a spring branch; happiness like a warm summer sun; magic like the rising mists of autumn. And best of all love; love enough for a thousand Christmases.
- The Thief of Always by Clive Barker, pg. 202 (last few lines of the book)