They do not live in the world,
Are not in time and space.
From birth to death hurled
No word do they have, not one
To plant a foot upon,
Were never in any place.

We are the dead. Our only true life is in the future.

"Just as there never died a man," quoth he, "But he had lived on earth in some degree, Just so there never lived a man," he said, "In all this world, but must be sometime dead. This world is but a thoroughfare of woe, And we are pilgrims passing to and fro;"

There's some that came here never believing they were dead. They insisted all the way that they were alive, it was a mistake, someone would have to pay; made no difference. There's others who longed to be dead when they were alive, poor souls; lives full of pain or misery; killed themselves for a chance of a blessed rest, and found that nothing had changed except for the worse, and this time there was no escape; you can't make yourself alive again.

We are nothing in this life.

Those who have no sense of posterity or any concern for future generations are the ones who are really dead. I mean, they are dead right now. Walking zombies.

We have nothing to live but life itself.

People are strange, they neither wish to live nor die.

nada le importe morir a quien jamás vivió.

When we dead awaken. … We see that we have never lived.

We are the dead. Our only true life is in the future. We shall take part in it as handfuls of dust and splinters of bone. But how far away that future may be, there is no knowing.

Those who live forever, who have no stake in the dance of death’s inevitable approach, can never understand the sanctity of life.

The world is what it is; men who are nothing, who allow themselves to become nothing, have no place in it.

Unliving things have no passions, and no memory: mere matter is the amnesia of the universe.