Quotes About Desperation

there. Before they eat my brain and start heading for my heart." He whimpered, a sound that seemed to Mark more like it would come from an injured dog than from a human. "What symptoms are you feeling?" Lana asked. "What happened to Misty?" Mark watched as the Toad raised his hands up and pressed them against the sides of his head. Even his silhouette was creepy doing such a thing.

The chaos around him seemed to siphon away his humanity, turn him into an animal.

partner—is standing there, holding her gun. Mark slouches down, waiting for the barrage of bullets. But instead, he notices the woman aim the weapon at herself, the muzzle propped against the bottom of her chin. Mark wants to scream, to tell her not to do it. But it's too late. The woman pulls the trigger. The boat drives on.

They made it halfway before order collapsed. All of the house occupants seemed to scream at once, and their bodies swarmed in, pressing against Mark and his friends. Mark lost hold of Deedee's hand and saw her disappear into the crowd, her sweet little cry like that of an angel among demons.

KILL ME!" And then Newt's eyes cleared, as if he'd gained one last trembling gasp of sanity, and his voice softened. "Please, Tommy. Please." With his heart falling into a black abyss, Thomas pulled the trigger.

her words were lost. The Griever had sucked her face into its blubbery skin and was pulling her farther and farther in, suffocating her.

sick, Mark. I'm really, really sick. I need to die. I need to die and I don't wanna die for nothing.

The rage crept in. Like a shivering rat looking for a spot of warmth, a crumb of food.

Eat. Sleep. Exercise. Thirst for revenge. That was what he did for three more days. Alone. On the twenty-sixth day, the door opened.

you'll be cured of the Flare. That's exactly two weeks—starting the second you step through the Trans. If you don't make it, eventually you'll end up dead.

Kill me. If you've ever been my friend, kill me. Please Tommy. Please

Nothing can comeof this nothing can comeOf us: of me with my grim techniquesOr you who have sealed your wombWith a ring of convulsive rubber:Although we come together,Nothing will come of us.

If there was a God. I would spit in his face for subjecting me to this. If there was a Devil, I would sell my sould to make it end. If there was something Higher that controlled out f***ing fates, I would tell it to take my fate and shove it up its fucking ass. Shove it hard and far, you motherf***er. Please end. Please end. Please end.

John: "Poor John. Who says poor John? Don't everybody sob at once! My God, if I went up in flames there's not a living soul who'd pee on me to put the fire out!" Richard: "Let's strike a flint and see.

Two whores who finally found something to mother. A guy could write a book about it, he thought bitterly, call it From Hair To Maternity . It would probly be a very long book. Whores did not produce as fast as rabbits.

At first I couldn't believe it. I waited, not moving my cock, which was rock hard thanks to this pulsing grip. But yes, here it was again. The same pattern, the same rhythm. I was being signaled by an asshole in Morse code. And it was signaling SOS.

I had killed a man, for money and a woman. I didn't have the money and I didn't have the woman.

Preferring the comforting messages of certain attributes of God, our lives have become a trifling with His holiness. We desperately need to regain this view of the highness and the holiness of God. His holiness is the ultimate clarity.

If you get lonesome enough, Carrie knew, you'll even call the police.

There is nothing so desperately monotonous as the sea, and I no longer wonder at the cruelty of pirates.

Real cybersecurity means that your Security Operations team is consistently pen testing your network with the same stealth and sophistication as the Russian nation state, the same desperation as China's 13th Five Year Plan, the same inexhaustible energy of the Cyber Caliphate and the same greed and ambition for monetary payoff as a seasoned cyber-criminal gang.

Nowadays men lead lives of noisy desperation.

I stood in the shadiest corner I could find with my mass-market paperback and, with a red pencil, went through and underlined a lot of particularly bracing sentences: "The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation." "A stereotyped but unconscious despair is concealed even under what are called the games and amusements of mankind." What would Thoreau have made of Las Vegas: its lights and rackets, its trash and daydreams, its projections and hollow façades?

Why hadn't I grabbed his arm and begged him one last time to get in the car, come on, fuck it Boris, just like skipping school, we'll be eating breakfast over cornfields when the sun comes up?