Quotes About Ephemerality

We brought nothing into this world and it's certain we can carry nothing out.

Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie, Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and-sans End!

The camera itself, the photograph itself, calls up death.

Day is pushed out by day, and each new moon hastens to its death. [Lat., Truditur dies die, Novaeque pergunt interire lunae.]

There are days we live as if death were nowhere in the background; from joy to joy to joy, from wing to wing, from blossom to blossom to impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.

I pressed her thigh and death smiled

Buddhas move freely through birth and death, appearing and disappearing at will.

Best while you have it use your breath, There is no drinking after death.

Drink today, and drown all sorrow; You shall perhaps not do it tomorrow; Best, while you have it, use your breath; There is no drinking after death.

They are not long, the days of wine and roses. Out of a misty dream, our path emerges for a while, then closes, within a dream.

As soon as one is born, one starts dying.

Live how we can, yet die we must.

Death rides on every passing breeze, He lurks in every flower.

Beauty means the scent of roses and then the death of roses

Death comes in a flash, and that's the truth of it, the person's gone in less than 24 frames of film.

What, then, remains but that we still should cry, For being born, and, being born, to die?

Men's pleasure swells in a brief space of time,   and likewise falls to the ground, shaken by an adverse judgement.

Everything changes and nothing remains still.

What's the one thing we want when it comes to the people we love? Time. And what's the scariest thing about how love goes? Time. The thing we want the most is the thing we fear the most, I guess. Time is going to run out. But in the meantime we have... everything.

The sun was hardly risen, but already time was running out.

If you think about it, you were born into a world populated by the dead, because every one of them will die one day.

I'd found love -- only to discover how fleeting it can be.

Each minute bursts in the burning room, The great globe reels in the solar fire, Spinning the trivial and unique away. (How all things flash! How all things flare!) What am I now that I was then? May memory restore again and again The smallest color of the smallest day: Time is the school in which we learn, Time is the fire in which we burn.

I don't spend a lot of time contending with the fact that time is not endless.