Stephenie Meyer. New moon (№ 12572)

Time passes. Even when it seems impossible. Even when each tick of the second hand aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise. It passes unevenly, in strange lurches and dragging lulls, but pass it does.
Time goes on. Even when you think that it's impossible. Even when each movement of the second hand of the watch painful like pulsating taps of blood after an injury. It goes smoothly, swaying uncertainly, then runs, then dies, but still continues to go. Even for me.