Anxiously he explored every one of these vaguely seen shapes, as though among the phantoms of the dead, in the realms of darkness, he had been searching for a lost Eurydice.
When those who name dead people have gone, there just remains the calmness of foreign cemeteries, in which nothing appears familiar and nothing frightens you.
When I lifted up the skin, a fat kidney worm dripping with gore raised its bald, blind head and glared at me.
Smiling, he handed Landry the bloody aluminum bat Warnick had used. ‘Time to die, old man,’ he said.
With mind distracted, never thinking, "Death is coming," To slave away on the pointless business of mundane life, And then to come out empty--it is a tragic error. (116) trans by Robert Thurman
The skanky vamp biting for bucks on the dark end of state street is your ex boyfriend?" William asked. The look on William's face implied he hoped I washed after interacting with Parrish
To put it crudely but graphically, the monkey who did not have a realistic perception of the tree branch he jumped for was soon a dead monkey—and therefore did not become one of our ancestors.
Dead voices, lost sounds, forgotten noises, vibrations lockstepping into the abyss and now too distant ever to be recaptured!...What sort of arrows would be able to transfix such birds?
Why do my movies make people feel so dead inside?
Kellyanne opened the car door and crawled into my bedroom. Her face was puffy and pale and fuzzed-over. She just came in and said: "Ashmol, Pobby and Dingan are maybe-dead." That's how she said it.
People are going to say a lot of things. And some of it will be helpful, and some of it will be annoying, and lots of it will get on your nerves. But they're saying it because they found it helpful when they lost someone. They mean well.
To forget would mean the things we never knew had never waited to be known, never waited to be forgotten, had never been; waiting beneath the long dead stars in time. . .
The summer stretched out the daylight as if on a rack. Each moment was drawn out until its anatomy collapsed. Time broke down. The day progressed in an endless sequence of dead moments.
If it wasn’t for all those silver wings spread out to help you on your journey, you would’a been dead or someplace screamin’ in a nut house a long time ago.
And the sun on the wall of her room, the block of sun with all the tiny flying things in it. When she was little she thought they were the souls of dead insects, still buzzing in the light.
Just take me with you. Please. I cant. Please, Papa. I cant. I cant hold my son dead in my arms. I thought I could but I cant.
I don’t have any inkling what to do with all the ink in this digital age. Maybe I’ll write a bunch of love letters to a dead author. Who moved my mayonnaise?
I celebrate my birthday in ways not seen this side of the Old Testament. I celebrate my life like the Dead Sea, and my party is a BYOP (bring your own plague) event.
I’m hypoglycemic and squeamish and liable to pass out at the first sign of blood. That happened this morning. I came into the kitchen and found blood on the floor, right next to a few dead hookers.
Hadrian leapt to his feet. Royce was already up. “Don’t bother,” Esrahaddon told them. “She’s dead, and there’s nothing you can do. The monster cannot be harmed by your weapons. It—” The two were out the door.
Drifting on the black, rippling surface were fingers. Thumbs. Dozens of them. Hundreds, floating like dead fish in a dynamited pond. I saw part of an ear. The lights went out.
