Quotes About Timeless

Then you got to the face, framed by that mane of black silk hair, and no heart could be blamed for skipping a few beats. That face, carved by some genius god on a particularly artistic day. Those eyes, so wildly blue they caught the breath. That mouth, so perfectly, romantically sculpted, curved now, for her. Maybe, just maybe, with another handful of years of marriage, seeing him unexpectedly wouldn't simply dazzle her.

How many of the ragged workingmen who pass him in the street are secret authors of works that will outlast them: roads, walls, pylons? Immortality of a kind, a limited immortality, is not so hard to achieve after all. Why then does he persist in inscribing marks on paper, in the faint hope that people not yet born will take the trouble to decipher them?

Real lives have no end. Real books have no end.

You are just as beautiful as the first time I saw you … You stopped my heart then – just froze it in my chest. And you stop it now.

Because love in its many forms always endured. It was the infinite. The eternal. That which sustained.

Because love, after all, was eternal and not subject to the whims of death.

Among all the phrases in all the languages in all the worlds, there was one that never lost its luster, no matter how many times it was spoken. I love you never got worn out.

Last fight I had with the bitch ended way too soon." Eddie rolled his eyes and glanced at Jim. "It was back in the Middle Ages and he still hasn't gotten over it." "Why so long ago?" "We got put on ice," Eddie said. "We were a little more fallen than the bosses were comfortable with." Adrian

Quasi come se si conoscessero da secoli, invece che da qualche anno soltanto. D'altronde è così quando incontri qualcuno con cui ti senti in profonda armonia, no?Ti sembra di conoscerlo da sempre.

I'm in this forever.

No matter how long gone, you'll always be here. A heartbeat close. A whisper's near.

I have all the time in the world from life to life to do what is to do, to do what is done, to do the timeless doing.

A poet is a blind optimist. The world is against him for many reasons. But the poet persists. He believes that he is on the right track, no matter what any of his fellow men say. In his eternal search for truth, the poet is alone. He tries to be timeless in a society built on time.

The dream is already ended and we're already awake in the golden eternity.

Everything is all right forever and forever and forever.

the golden eternity is { }

And you have been forever, and will be forever, and all the worrisome smashings of your foot on innocent cupboard doors it was only the Void pretending to be a man pretending not to know the Void.

And for just a moment I had reached the point of ecstasy that I always wanted to reach and which was the complete step across chronological time into timeless shadows, and wonderment in the bleakness of the mortal realm, and the sensation of death kicking at my heels to move on, with a phantom dogging its own heels, and myself hurrying to a plank where all the Angels dove off and flew into infinity.

The woods do that to you, they always look familiar, long lost, like the face of a long-dead relative, like an old dream, like a piece of forgotten song drifting across the water, most of all like golden eternities of past childhood or past manhood and all the living and the dying and the heartbreak that went on a million years ago and the clouds as they pass overhead seem to testify (by their own lonesome familiarity) to this feeling.

There are immeasurable star misty aeons of universes more numerous than the sands in all the galaxies, multiplied by a billion lightyears of multiplication, in fact if I were to go on you'd be scared and couldn't comprehend and you'd despair so much you'd drop dead,' that's what he just about said in one of those sutras----

They're so silent!" I said. "Yeah man, you know to me a mountain is a Buddha. Think of the patience, hundreds of thousands of years just sittin there bein perfectly perfectly silent and like praying for all living creatures in that silence and just waitin for us to stop all our frettin and foolin.

Then Indiana fields again, and St. Louis as ever in its great valley clouds of afternoon. The muddy cobbles and the Montana logs, the broken steamboats, the ancient signs, the grass and the ropes by the river. The endless poem.

Everything is possible. I am God, I am Buddha, I am imperfect Ray Smith, all at the same time, I am empty space, I am all things. I have all the time in the world to do what is to do, to do what is done, to do the timeless doing, infinitely perfect within, why cry, why worry, perfect like mind essence and the minds of banana peels.

The trouble is, you think you have time.