Quotes About Fleeting

There can be no meaning in what will someday be lost. Passing glory is not true glory at all.

Just because there's an end doesn't mean existence has meaning. An end point is simply set up as a temporary marker or perhaps as an indirect metaphor for the fleeting nature of existence.

It's really difficult to talk about dead people, but it's even harder to talk about dead young women. It's because from the time they die, they'll be young forever. On the other hand, for us, the survivors, every year, every month, every day, we get older. Sometimes, I feel like I can feel myself aging from one hour to the next. It's a terrible thing, but that's reality.

Beginnings are always like this. One minute everything exists, the next minute everything is lost.

Each and every moment, our bodies are on a one-way journey to collapse and deterioration, unable to turn back the clock. I close my eyes, I open them again, only to realize that in the interim so many things have vanished. Buffeted by the intense midnight winds, these things—some with names, some without—disappear without a trace. All that is left is a faint memory. Even memory, though, can hardly be relied on. Can anyone say for certain what really happened to us back then?

As you may know, in this Town, memory is unreliable and uncertain. There are things we can remember and things we cannot remember.

La clase de chicas guapas que, por más tiempo que las mires, en cuanto apartas los ojos de ellas, ya no te acuerdas de qué cara tenían. En el mundo existe este tipo de belleza. Que es como los pomelos: indistinta.

I don't want to forget the last time you touched me.

We each have a special something we can get only at a special time of our life. Like a small flame. A careful, fortunate few cherish that flame, nurture it, hold it as a torch to light their way. But once that flame goes out, it's gone forever. What I'd lost was not just Sumire. I'd lost that precious flame.

Long after the firefly had disappeared, the trail of its light remained inside me, its pale, faint glow hovering on and on in the thick darkness behind my eyelids like a lost soul. More than once I tried stretching my hand out in the dark. My fingers touched nothing. The faint glow remained, just beyond my grasp.

Life is strange, isn't it? You can be totally entranced by the glow of something one minute, be willing to sacrifice everything to make it yours, but then a little time passes, or your perspective changes a bit, and all of a sudden you're shocked at how faded it appears. What was I looking at?

Time goes by so damn fast.

I wish memory were a more steady, more physical artifact. It's just a breeze, or a scent barely detected and fading.

All merely graceful attributes are usually the most evanescent.

There is nothing more beautiful, I think, than the evanescent fleeting images and sentiments presented by a language one is just becoming familiar with—ideas that flit across the mental sky, shaped and tinted by capricious fancy.

Movies are written in sand: applauded today, forgotten tomorrow.

I had a New Year's kiss once. But it was like, 'Let's start the year off together,' and then we wound up breaking up the night after!

As you get older, the days have gone, and the years have gone, and it's 'whoosh!'

The tragedy of life is not that it ends so soon.

There's something about the girls and the boys who just live for the moment and don't think a second beyond their needs and the here and now that, ultimately, is pretty tragic.

I have no predilection for unpopularity as such, but I hold it much preferable to the popularity of a day, which perishes with the transient topic upon which it is grounded.

There have been people I've warmed to over the years but, as the situation I'm in is so fleeting and transient, I've always known it's going to be over kind of real quick.

You don't keep in contact with many of the people you work with because there are so many. Acting's just a transient job, very occasionally you'll meet people and really hit it off but generally you just know people to say hello to.

The immense majority of human biographies are a gray transit between domestic spasm and oblivion.