Haruki Murakami. The Murder Of The Commendatore (№ 409953)

It seemed that in these thickets you could even hear how time flows and human life flows. One person leaves, another person comes. One thought disappears, another one arises. One form dissolves, another one appears. After all, even I am gradually collapsing day after day in order to recover. Nothing stands in one place. And only time is lost. The time behind me moment by moment becomes dead sand - collapses and disappears. And I sit in front of this abyss and just listen to how it dies.