Jesus honey, your husband ain’t dead, he’s in hiding.” He growled, watching her visibly flinch. - Jase Devlin
He could only consider me as the living corpse of a would-be suicide, a person dead to shame, an idiot ghost.
I had this daft idea to come and bury the past. Except the past is not quite dead.
Without this flock, I would be worthless. Without the people in this flock, I'd be empty. Without the people who started this flock, I'd be dead.
To be alive, it seemed to me, as I stood there in all kinds of sorrow, was to be both original and reflection, and to be dead was to be split off, to be reflection alone.
I was dead unit you found me, though I breathed. I was sightless, though I could see. And then you came...and I was awakened.
I felt the unfairness of it, the inarguable injustice of loving someone who might have loved you back but can't due to deadness.
Knackered inmates are easier to control than pumped-up ones. And dead inmates are even easier to control, if you follow me.
He'd kill you all right. No sweat. But for the wrong reasons. Amateur's reasons. Of course, you'll be just as dead.
It seemed everyone knew their place in it, but I was in the mood where I would rather be alone and look a houseplants.
No puedes estar seguro de cómo va a resultar, incluso si lo haces todo bien. Las cosas se vuelven en tu contra, la vida lo hace.
But maybe that's what the dead do. They stay. They linger. Benign and sweet and painful. They don't need us. They echo all by themselves.
A man who offers to cook after he's seen you trying to freeze a dead dog has to be at least a little bit keen.
It is seriously creepy when you receive a friend request from a dead friend in social media asking you to accept.
Wil ate without enthusiasm. His bacon tasted like nothing. Like a dead animal, fried. His eggs, aborted chickens.
When the time travel is eventually doable technologically, yesterday was dead a man who is going to be born tomorrow.
I am ashamed to think how easily we capitulate to badges and names, to large societies and dead institutions.
I admire Shakespeare enormously. But since I can’t be him, I’m glad that his marriage was unhappy and he’s dead.
The living are made of nothing but flaws. The dead, with each passing day in the afterlife, become more and more impeccable to those who remain earthbound.
Everyone wavers between the emotionally still-alive past ad the already dead future. Gilles Ivain (aka Ivan Chtcheglov)
For your birthday I got you some batteries. They’re dead, just like you’ll soon be.
