Quotes About Fading

The graves grow deeper. The dead are more dead each night. Under the elms and the rain of leaves, The graves grow deeper. The dark folds of the wind Cover the ground. The night is cold. The leaves are swept against the stones. The dead are more dead each night. A starless dark embraces them. Their faces dim. We cannot remember them Clearly enough. We never will.

The lot of the brideto be wed before beddesired until rotten.The lot of the authorto be read before bedadmired then forgotten.

She watched until it became an indistinct dot in the sky.

What has faded, is already lost

I sat there for minutes, seasons, years, the wind becoming winter against my skin, the day becoming night, then blinding again, harsh with detail. I closed my eyes, but the details still shone bright and demanding behind my lids, replacing a lifetime of memories with a single bloody image of Walther, and then, mercifully, the image faded, everything faded, leaving only dull, numbing gray.

There wasn't a change in the world order that didn't echo other changes in the world order. And the news stopped being new. The very word 'news' became a joke. It was all just a cycle. A slowly rotating downward one. And your tolerance for human beings, making the same mistakes over and over and over and over again, began to fade. It was like being stuck in the same song, with a chorus you had once liked but now made you want to rip your ears off.

I'm sorry,' his other self said, as he sipped his wine and the sun set behind him, 'I've forgotten who you are.' 'Don't worry,' she said. 'So have I.' As she too faded away like the sun that had just been swallowed by the horizon.

The letters fading like retreating strangers in a fog.

she too faded away like the sun that had just been swallowed by the horizon

Things had faded between them until their friendship became just a vapour trail of sporadic Facebook and Instagram likes and emoji-filled birthday messages.

It became clear to me how men die. I saw that it is not so hard. Or easy. It is nothing. One just starts living less and less, being less and less, thinking, feeling and knowing less and less. The rich flow of life dries up, and only a thin thread of uncertain consciousness remains, more and more meager, more and more insignificant. And then nothing happens, there is not anything, there is nothing. And nothing matters—it is all the same.

Some memories fade to tender nostalgia, and some fade altogether,

Love, when it goes, can sometimes burn to ash. And sometimes it can leave nothing.

Twilight was already coagulating into night.

Os mortos não morrem quando deixam de viver, mas quando os votamos ao esquecimento.

Verlangen doet alles bloeien, bezit verwelkt.

I wonder if this is what it feels like, falling out of love: feeling yourself fading out of existence - the gray sky, the coffee shop limbo - everything a way station of sorts. Making promises you know you can't keep. Making promises - period. People in love shouldn't have to vow or demand, petition or exhort. Nothing. Not even question. No collisions with your surroundings or yourself - you move gently, unknowing, in time.

Je vois le soir tomber et le monde mourir.

She wasn't hideous or shameful to look at, but she had prematurely reached the stage in a woman's life when no one noticed her entering or leaving a room.

silver fork (our crest, a fox rampant, almost handled and washed away

My heart was breaking on my way home that day. I was crying ugly tears because I could feel it yet again...the feeling of something fading away. Fading away into 'memories.' And even if I don't forget the loneliness and sorrow that tore me apart...the memories themselves are fading, too. No matter how much I try to hold on...no matter how many times I swear it to myself...time moves on, and they begin to fade. It's cruel.

there's something undoing about the dying light of mid-afternoon.

Nothing but the sigh of embers into ash.

But nothing is lasting in this world. Even joy begins to fade after only one minute. Two minutes later, and it is weaker still, until finally it is swallowed up in our everyday, prosaic state of mind, just as a ripple made by a pebble gradually merges with the smooth surface of the water.