Quotes About Ephemerality

Nothing lasts, you see, not even the thoughts inside you. And you musn't waste your time looking for them. Once a thing is gone, that is the end of it.

The sky is white. It smells of the earth, and it is not there. The sky is white like the earth, and it smells of yesterday. All this was tomorrow. All this was a hundred years from now.

These are the last things, she wrote. One by one they disappear and never come back. I can tell you of the ones I have seen, of the ones that are no more, but I doubt there will be time. It is all happening too fast now, and I cannot keep up.

What is will not last forever.

Everything passes. Joy. Pain. The moment of triumph; the sigh of despair. Nothing lasts forever - not even this.

The intense atom glowsA moment, then is quenched in a most cold repose.

Theatre is always a self-destructive art, and it is always written on the wind.

Forecasting is not a respectable human activity and not worthwhile beyond the shortest of periods.

But then, ephemerality was the summation of most human activities. The trick was to enjoy the time when things were going right.

Still. No resolution ever. None. Nothing decided, nothing finished. The Dipper wheels back into place. Just one turn. One turn of the wheel and we are different, never the same. Not ever. Not even those stars. Even they, they decay, collapse, coalesce, break apart. Close my eyes.

how much more those who dwell in houses of clay, whose foundations are in the dust, who can be crushed like a moth!

Remember that my life is but a breath. My eyes will never again see happiness.

So man wastes away like something rotten, like a moth-eaten garment.

Like a flower, he comes forth, then withers away; like a fleeting shadow, he does not endure.

Are they like straw before the wind, like chaff swept away by a storm?

They are exalted for a moment, then they are gone; they are brought low and gathered up like all others; they are cut off like heads of grain.

The house he built is like a mothís cocoon, like a hut set up by a watchman.

He lies down wealthy, but will do so no more; when he opens his eyes, all is gone.

The east wind carries him away, and he is gone; it sweeps him out of his place.

“Show me, O LORD, my end and the measure of my days. Let me know how fleeting my life is.

He remembered that they were but flesh, a passing breeze that does not return.

You whisk them away in their sleep; they are like the new grass of the morning—

As for man, his days are like grass—he blooms like a flower of the field;

when the wind passes over, it vanishes, and its place remembers it no more.