Quotes About Decay

Hoard food and it rots. Hoard money and you rot. Hoard power and the nation rots.

No mat­ter how much I try and hide this, bit by bit, I start to fall apart.

I embrace my own festering diseased corruption

People die', she says. 'People tear down houses. But furniture, fine, beautiful furniture, it just goes on and on, surviving everything.' She says, 'Armoires are the cockroaches of our culture.

Nothing is static. Even the Mona Lisa is falling apart.

Think of spoiled cat food and ulcerated cankers and expired donor organs. That's how beautiful she looks.

These old people. These human ruins.

We are all self-composting.

Between wiener juice and lung blood, I'd say that chambray shirt was a goner.

Marla's heart looked the way my face was. The crap and the trash of the world. Post-consumer human butt wipe that no one would ever go to the trouble to recycle.

everything wooden swells and shrinks, and the nails in everything wooden, the floors and baseboards and window casings, the nails inch out and rust. Everywhere there are rusted nails to step on or snag your elbow on, and there's only one bathroom for the seven

Hoard food and it rots. Hoard money and you rot. Hoard power and the government rots.

I look like shit, dead. I look like dead shit.

Flecked and blotched with the stains of decomposition, the linen would trace a rambling journey in which everything you love falls apart.

Up those stairs, to anybody after the fiftieth dude, Cassie Wright will look like a missile crater greased with Vaseline. Flesh and blood, but like something's exploded inside her.

Armoires are the cockroaches of our culture." And

Die vagabundierende Physiologie dieser shoppenden, fressenden, herumhurenden Klumpen belebten Fleischs, sie schändet einen.

Essa é sua vida, ela vai acabando a cada minuto.

All around us, erosion and insects are just chewing up the world, never mind people and pollution. Everything biodegrades with or without you pushing.

De repente, hasta la muerte y los que están muriendo bajan desfilando con flores de plástico como en el vídeo de algo que no ocurrió.

Withered funeral flowers hanging from the bronze vase attached to each crypt, dripping stinky water on the marble floor and furry with mold, it's too easy to imagine what's happening to the beloved sealed inside.

Un día estás vivo y arrastrándote por el mundo, y al siguiente te has convertido en un frío fertilizante, en bufé para gusanos. Este es el asombroso milagro de la muerte.

Old books, the kind that give off the smell of dust and decay, an odor Balastair associates with the scent of pure knowledge. Knowledge of new things. Knowledge of new places. Every book a doorway—a cabinet of curiosities opening to a new land.

I'm old enough to remember when the Republic shot itself right in the knee. It wasn't taken over by the Empire. It became the Empire slowly, surely, not overnight but over years and decades. Fruit always tastes nice when it's ripe. But it can't stay like that. Every nice piece of fruit will rot on the branch if it hangs there long enough. You remember that.