This morning could have been perfect. The cruel truth is they have never been. Give us loneliness or give us death.
Horrible the fate of the advice-giver in our culture: to repeat oneself in a thousand contexts until death, or irrelevance. * I abjure advice-giver.
Oh, we do not understand death, we never understand it; creatures are only truly dead when everyone else has died who knew them.
You rich people are all the same. You couldn't care less about the other half of the world. They can all starve to death for all you care!
There is a characteristic INTJ expression which has become popularly termed "the death glare." This facial expression is actually not a glare, but the INTJ's neutral face.
You think of outside your room, of the streets of the town, the lonely little squares over by the station, of those winter Saturdays all alike.
She has to live, Eliott. I owe her a lifetime of apologies.” “Sometimes I think that’s all we owe our parents.
Will leans forward, pulls off his mask, and kisses my forehead. "I'm glad I was the one to save you this time " he whispers.
Flowers that grow where old ones have withered serve to remind us that death will one day come to us all.
And he goes around killing people?” said Mort. He shook his head. “There’s no justice.” Death sighed. No, he said... there’s just me.
...Night has chosen thee; thy death will be thy birth. Night calls to thee; harken to Her sweet voice. Your destiny awaits you at the House of Night.
Smartass Disciple: Why men don't ready yet to join the intergalactic confederation? Master of Stupidity: Men could make them laugh to death. It'd be too risky for them.
Western funerals: black hearses, and black horses, and fast-fading flowers. Why should black be the colour of death? Why not the colours of a sunset?
The chanting went on, the musicians giving in to the rhythm of their own being, finding healing in touching that rhythm, and healing in chanting about death, the only real god they knew.
Welcome to the future, she thought, surveying all this wordage and tat. All our tragedies and triumphs, our lives and deaths, our shames and joys are just stuffing for your emptiness.
Some people are like singularities. Get close enough and you will be uncontrollably consumed in an infinite attraction and will cease to exist apart from them.
The most purely free decision one can make—and thus, the highest order of spirit on Earth—is believing in something without evidential knowledge.
Whoever has the better stuff wins. Sound familiar, American lackeys of late-stage capitalism?
It's a certain tragedy when agony and resentment are all you have left connecting you to someone you once loved.
Death and burial were a public spectacle. Shakespeare may have seen for himself the gravediggers at St Ann's, Soho, playing skittles with skulls and bones.
There are any number of magical creatures, mostly female, whose singing can bring about horror and death. Sirens, undines, banshees, Bananarama tribute bands...
