Quotes About Ephemeral

Time is an illusion.

Time lost, as men may see, For nothing may recovered be.

The Person is a bubble on Time's sea.

Time, you old gipsy man, Will you not stay, Put up your caravan Just for one day?

I sometimes think that there is nothing but time, that what you see and what you feel is what time looks like at that moment.

Time in its irresistible and ceaseless flow carries along on its flood all created things and drowns them in the depths of obscurity.

Through music time is tamed, although music never forgets to remind us of time's faceless mission.

The fairest things have fleetest end, Their scent survives their close: But the rose's scent is bitterness To him that loved the rose. —Francis Thompson

I seem to myself, as in a dream, An accidental guest in this dreadful body.

He'd had a dog once, in that way he'd had everything in his childhood, ordinary but a lot less lasting.

I see her on a Sunday after lunch, and we spend a pleasant afternoon, and when I leave I find she has run through me like water.

But like balloons, they were excessively buoyant, and if you weren't careful, they floated away.

everyone has come to understand that unconditional love is a reality, but with as shelf life of about eight to ten seconds. [p. 110]

It was never meant to be permanent. You must have known the tide would come back in.

the rain that held the light that fell, the rain that fell, the light that held

The sunrise shell has the eternal validity of all beautiful and fleeting things.

Everything between sunset and darkness. There is so much room for imagination. You see things in a different way from the glare of daylight. There's a richer beauty, and an awareness of how fleeting it all is, how ephemeral.

Maybe that was all there ever will be just that one weekend and forever this unfinished feeling...

When it's happening it is too beautiful, too overwhelming, and you can feel it's being lost with every breath you take.

I've been passing through for the longest time.

Despair is so familiar to me; it could be banished by the sight of a beautiful mannekin in the window. It could be dispelled by the lights surrounding a tower. It would be lifted by the great ghostly shape of St. Patrick's coming into view. And then despair would come again. Meaningless, I almost said, aloud.

Words spoken to drunkards were truly words written in water. They vanished into the endless void in which the drunkard languished.

Spiderwebs broken and torn in a wind that is indifferent to their beauty.

Out, out, brief candle." Such comforting remembrance can turn in an instant to agony.