Quotes About Fleeting

If I must fade,' he said, 'I would like to fade remembering this as my last waking dream.' 'Don't go,' she whispered. 'Hold on, for me. We are so close.' He touched her cheek. 'Only promise me one thing,' he said. 'If I do go, give us a happy ending, will you? In your book?' 'I don't believe in endings,' she said, but he only smiled at her, and faded slowly from view.

Because that which was new was almost always temporary. And that which was temporary broke your heart.

You will still be here tomorrow, but your dreams may not.

We're all feathers in the fire; time passes on us like a lick of flame, one minute we're there, the next we're gone, forgotten, as if we'd never been.

People come into our lives, she thought, and it's not always a forever kind of thing, and not always meant to be. Not every deal is for keeps.

Why be given hours and days if all you want to do is make them go away again?

It had been fun, yes, and had provided a fleeting sense of happiness. Like a miniature vacation from the sorrow.

Life gives us nothing outright. It only lends. Nothing is ours to keep. Absolutely nothing. Not even our bodies, our brains. This 'self' that we think we know so well, that we think of as us. It is only on loan. If a person comes into our life, they will go again. In a parting of ways, or because everyone dies. They will die or you will die. Nothing we receive in this life are we allowed to keep.

Things which are gone in the morning: sleep, darkness, grief, the moon. Women. Dreams.

I opened my fist. Maruchan had stolen lipstick for me. Revlon Super Lustrous 919: Red Ruin, worn almost all the way down to the nub by some dead woman's lips. After that, a lot of years went by but they weren't anything special.

Often when we realize how precious those seconds are, it's too late for them to be captured because the moment has passed. We realize too late.

But he's a fool who doesn't see how swift the wings of youth are, and how near the cradle lies to the grave.

For those few minutes I experienced a feeling of complete mastery, a perfect, unstable equilibrium. The kind of perfection that belongs only to things that are temporary, destined to end shortly.

We are all specks of dust against the specter of Time. Is ninety years so different from forty in the scheme of things? We are all the walking dead of history.

Joy is a fragile, fleeting thing. Sorrow is stronger and lasts longer. It can weigh you down, paralyze you.

What glitters, lives but for the moment; what has real worth, survives for all posterity.

No le sacia ningún placer, no le contenta ninguna felicidad, va sin cesar en busca de formas cambiantes. El pobre quiere apresar ese último, ese mísero, ese vano momento.

Havadaki her bir esintinin oyunca?? m?y?z biz?

Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away; Lengthen night and shorten day! Every leaf speaks bliss to me, Fluttering from the autumn tree...

We want it to stay, but autumn always leaves. Beautifully.

The first breath is the beginning of death.

The stem of a departed flower Has still a silent rank, The bearer from an emerald court Of a despatch of pink.

Ephemeral, eternal heart!

And after all, what did it matter? Everybody died anyway, the good and the bad, the efficients and the weaklings, those that loved to live and those that scorned to live. They passed. Everything passed.