The huge round lunar clock was a gristmill. Shake down all the grains of Timeโthe big grains of centuries, and the small grains of years, and the tiny grains of hours and minutesโand the clock pulverized them, slid Time silently out in all directions in a fine pollen, carried by cold winds to blanket the town like dust, everywhere. Spores from that clock lodged in your flesh to wrinkle it, to grow bones to monstrous size, to burst feet from shoes like turnips. Oh, how that great machineโฆdispensed Time in blowing weathers.
Ray BradburyI came on the old and best ways of writing through ignorance and experiment and was startled when truths leaped out of brushes like quail before gunshot.
Ray BradburyI am madness maddened when it comes to books, writers, and the great granary silos where their wits are stored.
Ray Bradbury