Quotes About Decay

Suddenly they become the bleached bones of a story.

I was not living but actively dying.

The walls are cracked and water runs upon them within threads without sound, black and glistening as blood.

The Universe is picking us off one by one. Yesterday part of the poop deck went, and with it all the toilets.

This is how it works: Someone has a vision that arises from a fierce and passionate love. To make it real, we must love every moment of what we do. Impermanent spirals embed themselves in asphalt, concrete, dust. Slowly, slowly, they eat into the foundations of the structures of power. Deep transformations take time. Regeneration arises from decay. Si, se puede! It can be done.

Oooh, there's a Ziploc baggie with a broken barrette, four pencils that are missing erasers, and some decomposing Easter chocolate (do not under any circumstances eat the choc—oops, too late).

The moment when flowers and fruits are at their fullest and ripest is the moment that precedes their fall, their decay, their rot, their death.

Environments without oxygen are excellent for the preservation of soft parts: no oxidation, no decay by aerobic bacteria. Such conditions are common on earth, particularly in stagnant basins. But the very conditions that promote preservation also decree that few organisms, if any, make their natural home in such places.

Dead fields under a November sky, scattered rose petals brown and turning up at the edges, empty pools scummed with algae, rot, decomposition, dust...

On that gray street, with the smell of industrial smokes in the air and the afternoon bleeding away to evening, downtown Derry looked only marginally more charming than a dead hooker in a church pew.

The over-all impression is one of a town that is waiting to die. It is not enough, these days, to say that Chamberlain will never be the same. It may be closer to the truth to say that Chamberlain will simply never again be.

There's a door in the wall. The door is covered with ivy. The ivy is dead. She waits.

Gravity is the anchor that pulls us down into our graves.

New Orleans, city of roaches, city of decay, city of our family, and of happy, happy people.

A beautiful rose with an ugly soul wilts quickly.

Expansion is life, contraction is death. Love is life, hatred is death.

The world's decay where the wind's hands have passed, And my head, worn out with love, at rest In my hands, and my hands full of dust.

For days after death hair and fingernails continue to grow, but phone calls taper off.

But mostly I felt filled with horror. I was haunted by what I now knew. How could you live each day knowing that you were simply whiling away the days until your own death? How could this man whose skin I had felt that morning under my fingers – warm, and alive – choose to just extinguish himself? How could it be that, with everyone's consent, in six months' time that same skin would be decaying under the ground?

The woodland smelled of moss, damp wood and healthy decay, so unlike the sinister damp of the house, where she often found herself wondering what might be rotting away around them.

How could you live each day knowing that you were simply whiling away the days until your own death? How could this man whose skin I had felt that morning under my fingers – warm, and alive – choose to just extinguish himself? How could it be that, with everyone's consent, in six months' time that same skin would be decaying under the ground?

When I listen to music, I don't want to hear about flowers. I like death and destruction.

Even gods decay. Like, in 1890 somebody sold off thousands of mummified Ancient Egyptian sacred cats - _for fertilizer_. Get the point? Constancy isn't.

Every single zom, every man, woman and child, no matter how decayed or how frightening they are, no matter how dangerous they are—they were all once real people. They had names, and lives, and personalities, and families. They had dreams and goals. They had pasts and they thought they had futures, but something came and took that away from them.