that which is only living
Can only die

Yesterday is yesterday. If we try to recapture it, we will only lose tomorrow.

The past alone is truly real: the present is but a painful, struggling birth into the immutable being of what is no longer. Only the dead exist fully. The lives of the living are fragmentary, doubtful, and subject to change; but the lives of the dead are complete, free from the sway of Time, the all but omnipotent lord of the world. Their failures and successes, their hopes and fears, their joys and pains, have become eternal—our efforts cannot now abate one jot of them. Sorrows long buried in the grave, tragedies of which only a fading memory remains, loves immortalized by Death's hallowing touch these have a power, a magic, an untroubled calm, to which no present can attain. ...On the banks of the river of Time, the sad procession of human generations is marching slowly to the grave; in the quiet country of the Past, the march is ended, the tired wanderers rest, and the weeping is hushed.

death is the only water to wash away this dirt

The past is a ghost, the future a dream and all we ever have is now.

The past is the only dead thing that smells sweet.

The past is the only dead thing that smells sweet.

The past is a ghost, the future is a dream, all we ever have is now.

No one but death the redeemer will humble that head.

The only certainty is death.

The past is a ghost, the future is a dream, and all we ever have is now.

Death is the only god that comes when you call.

There were certain basic things, perhaps—the very earth, itself—which existed through every point in time, holding a sort of limited eternity to provide a solid matrix. And the dead—the dead and fabricated—stayed in the past as ghosts. The fence posts and the wire strung on them, the dead trees, the farm buildings, and the bridge were shadows of the present persisting in the past. Persisting, perhaps, reluctantly, because since they had no life they could not move along. They were bound in time and stretched through time and they were long, long shadows.
He was, he realized with a shock, the only living thing existing in this moment on this earth. He and nothing else.

It is only in death that we are truly cured of the 'sickness' of life.