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61 " He handed me something done up in paper. 'Your mask,' he said. 'Don't put it on until we get past the city-limits.' It was a frightening-looking thing when I did so. It was not a mask but a hood for the entire head, canvas and cardboard, chalk-white to simulate a skull, with deep black hollows for the eyes and grinning teeth for the mouth. The private highway, as we neared the house, was lined on both sides with parked cars. I counted fifteen of them as we bashed by; and there must have been as many more ahead, in the other direction. We drew up and he and I got out. I glanced in cautiously over my shoulder at the driver as we went by, to see if I could see his face, but he too had donned one of the death-masks.'Never do that,' the Messenger warned me in a low voice. 'Never try to penetrate any other member's disguise.' The house was as silent and lifeless as the last time - on the outside. Within it was a horrid, crawling charnel-house alive with skull-headed figures, their bodies encased in business-suits, tuxedos, and evening dresses. The lights were all dyed a ghastly green or ghostly blue, by means of colored tissue-paper sheathed around them. A group of masked musicians kept playing the Funeral March over and over, with brief pauses in between. A coffin stood in the center of the main living-room. I was drenched with sweat under my own mask and sick almost to death, even this early in the game.At last the Book-keeper, unmasked, appeared in their midst.Behind him came the Messenger. The dead-head guests all applauded enthusiastically and gathered around them in a ring.Those in other rooms came in. The musicians stopped the Death Match. The Book-keeper bowed, smiled graciously. 'Good evening, fellow corpses,' was his chill greeting. 'We are gathered together to witness the induction of our newest member.' There was an electric tension. 'Brother Bud!' His voice rang out like a clarion in the silence. 'Step forward.' (" Graves For Living" ) "
62 " Those deep set eyes that look like they could tell stories for days, and that wavy brown hair that feels soft between my fingers. I try to memorize the angles of his jaw and the lines of his lips, because I know.I know this may be the last time I ever see him.Breathe fills my lungs, my throat relaxes, and I can't help but smile. Because I can see what he's thinking as clearly as if he'd spoken.He doesn't want to leave - he doesn't want to go home.He's going to choose me instead. "
― Elizabeth Norris , Unraveling (Unraveling, #1)
63 " This poem is very longSo long, in fact, that your attention spanMay be stretched to its very limitsBut that’s okayIt’s what’s so special about poetrySee, poetry takes timeWe live in a timeCall it our culture or societyIt doesn’t matter to me cause neither one rhymesA time where most people don’t want to listenOur throats wait like matchsticks waiting to catch fireWaiting until we can speakNo patience to listenBut this poem is longIt’s so long, in fact, that during the time of this poemYou could’ve done any number of other wonderful thingsYou could’ve called your fatherCall your fatherYou could be writing a postcard right nowWrite a postcardWhen was the last time you wrote a postcard?You could be outsideYou’re probably not too far away from a sunrise or a sunsetWatch the sun riseMaybe you could’ve written your own poemA better poemYou could have played a tune or sung a songYou could have met your neighborAnd memorized their nameMemorize the name of your neighborYou could’ve drawn a picture(Or, at least, colored one in)You could’ve started a bookOr finished a prayerYou could’ve talked to GodPrayWhen was the last time you prayed?Really prayed?This is a long poemSo long, in fact, that you’ve already spent a minute with itWhen was the last time you hugged a friend for a minute?Or told them that you love them?Tell your friends you love them…no, I mean it, tell themSay, I love youSay, you make life worth livingBecause that, is what friends doOf all of the wonderful things that you could’ve doneDuring this very, very long poemYou could have connectedMaybe you are connectingMaybe we’re connectingSee, I believe that the only things that really matterIn the grand scheme of life are God and peopleAnd if people are made in the image of GodThen when you spend your time with peopleIt’s never wastedAnd in this very long poemI’m trying to let a poem do what a poem does:Make things simplerWe don’t need poems to make things more complicatedWe have each other for thatWe need poems to remind ourselves of the things that really matterTo take timeA long timeTo be alive for the sake of someone else for a single momentOr for many momentsCause we need each otherTo hold the hands of a broken personAll you have to do is meet a personShake their handLook in their eyesThey are youWe are all broken togetherBut these shattered pieces of our existence don’t have to be a messWe just have to care enough to hold our tongues sometimesTo sit and listen to a very long poemA story of a lifeThe joy of a friend and the grief of friendTo hold and be heldAnd be quietSo, prayWrite a postcardCall your parents and forgive them and then thank themTurn off the TVCreate art as best as you canShare as much as possible, especially moneyTell someone about a very long poem you once heardAnd how afterward it brought you to them "
― Colleen Hoover , This Girl (Slammed, #3)
64 " At sunset, on the river ban, KrishnaLoved her for the last time and left. . .That night in her husband's arms, Radha feltSo dead that he asked, What is wrong,Do you mind my kisses, love? And she said,Not not at all, but thought, What is It to the corpse if the maggots nip? "
― Kamala Suraiyya Das ,
65 " RSL has more star-liners than any other company, and covers every commercial route in known space. Demeter is one of the biggest, carrying up to 4500 passengers and crew at any single point on its never-ending, circular cruise around the Terran Empire. And me? Where do I fit in? My name is Sean Lange, and you will probably have never heard of me. It’s sad somehow, I always wanted to leave some kind of a legacy in this life, and perhaps to be remembered. Instead, circumstances have arranged it so that this is probably the last time I will ever use that name. "
― Christina Engela , Life Signs
66 " Alone in my bedroom, I realized I couldn't remember the last time I'd truly laughed. "
― Sarah J. Maas , A Court of Mist and Fury (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #2)
67 " I don't know what hurts more...those moments I ache for you to be here or those moments when you are here and I wonder if it is the last time I will feel you. "
68 " When was the last time someone ran their fingers through the knots of your soul? "
69 " One by one the angels had come to the top of Har Megiddo where I sat, holding her body close to mine after she'd died. I'd fought alongside them in battle, but up close, when they stood quietly watching us, they looked as beautiful as they looked unreal. the angels weren't supposed to feel emotions, but they were all weeping. All of them. Their tear stained their flawless faces like rain running in rivulets across stone. Azrael was the only one of then who came to me, knelt in front of me and took her from my arms. He was the angel of death come to carry his sister home. I din't want to give her up, knowing it would be the last time I ever saw her face. I had died on that wretched hill with her. "
― Courtney Allison Moulton , Shadows in the Silence (Angelfire, #3)
70 " We don’t even survive in the memories of the living. Science has destroyed that myth. Whenever we remember something, what we’re doing is remembering the last time we remembered it; our memory doesn’t go back to the original notch, the first one was cut, but to the last one. Human memory is virtual, like that of a computer. When we open a file we’re not opening it as it was when we first created it, but as it was the last time we used it. It is called hypercathexis and is our brain’s most sophisticated recourse when it comes to confronting pain. "
71 " Sherrie would be there, and the last time I’d seen her at a social event she burst into tears when she saw me and ran out of the room. You’re upset, I’d yelled after her, meanly. "
― Aimee Bender , The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake
72 " There’s an organic grocery store just off the highway exit. I can’t remember the last time I went shopping for food.” A smile glittered in his eyes. “I might have gone overboard.”I walked into the kitchen, with gleaming stainless-steel appliances, black granite countertops, and walnut cabinetry. Very masculine, very sleek. I went for the fridge first. Water bottles, spinach and arugula, mushrooms, gingerroot, Gorgonzola and feta cheeses, natural peanut butter, and milk on one side. Hot dogs, cold cuts, Coke, chocolate pudding cups, and canned whipped cream on the other. I tried to picture Patch pushing a shopping cart down the aisle, tossing in food as it pleased him. It was all I could do to keep a straight face. "
― Becca Fitzpatrick , Silence (Hush, Hush, #3)
73 " I've been looking so long at these pictures of youThat I almost believe that they're real I've been living so long with my pictures of youThat I almost believe that the pictures are All I can feelRemembering You standing quiet in the rain As I ran to your heart to be near And we kissed as the sky fell inHolding you close How I always held close in your fearRemembering You running soft through the night You were bigger and brighter and wider than snowAnd screamed at the make-believe Screamed at the skyAnd you finally found all your courage To let it all goRemembering You fallen into my arms Crying for the death of your heart You were stone whiteSo delicate Lost in the cold You were always so lost in the darkRemembering You how you used to be Slow drowned You were angelsSo much more than everything Hold for the last time then slip away quietly Open my eyes But I never see anythingIf only I'd thought of the right words I could have held on to your heart If only I'd thought of the right wordsI wouldn't be breaking apart All my pictures of youLooking so long at these pictures of you But I never hold on to your heart Looking so long for the words to be trueBut always just breaking apartMy pictures of youThere was nothing in the worldThat I ever wanted more Than to feel you deep in my heartThere was nothing in the world That I ever wanted moreThan to never feel the breaking apartAll my pictures of you "
― Boris Williams
74 " Fat’ is usually the first insult a girl throws at another girl when she wants to hurt her.I mean, is ‘fat’ really the worst thing a human being can be? Is ‘fat’ worse than ‘vindictive’, ‘jealous’, ‘shallow’, ‘vain’, ‘boring’ or ‘cruel’? Not to me; but then, you might retort, what do I know about the pressure to be skinny? I’m not in the business of being judged on my looks, what with being a writer and earning my living by using my brain…I went to the British Book Awards that evening. After the award ceremony I bumped into a woman I hadn’t seen for nearly three years. The first thing she said to me? ‘You’ve lost a lot of weight since the last time I saw you!’‘Well,’ I said, slightly nonplussed, ‘the last time you saw me I’d just had a baby.’What I felt like saying was, ‘I’ve produced my third child and my sixth novel since I last saw you. Aren’t either of those things more important, more interesting, than my size?’ But no – my waist looked smaller! Forget the kid and the book: finally, something to celebrate!I’ve got two daughters who will have to make their way in this skinny-obsessed world, and it worries me, because I don’t want them to be empty-headed, self-obsessed, emaciated clones; I’d rather they were independent, interesting, idealistic, kind, opinionated, original, funny – a thousand things, before ‘thin’. And frankly, I’d rather they didn’t give a gust of stinking chihuahua flatulence whether the woman standing next to them has fleshier knees than they do. Let my girls be Hermiones, rather than Pansy Parkinsons. "
― J.K. Rowling
75 " How often do we hear from the local diocesan people—the bishop, the communications director, the victim assistance coordinator, and others—that this abuse is not restricted to clergy, but, rather, it is a societal problem? It does occur outside in the public realm. When was the last time you heard of a sex offender not being held accountable for his actions once caught? The Church treated the abuse as a sin only and nothing more. Out in society, sex offenders are not moved to another community quietly. “But protest that priests are 'no worse' than other groups or than men in general is a dire indictment of the profession. It is surprising that this attitude is championed by the Church authorities. Although the extent of the problem will continue to be debated, sexual abuse by Catholic priests is a fact. The reason why priests, publicly dedicated to celibate service, abuse is a question that cries out for explanation. Sexual activity of any adult with a minor is a criminal offense. By virtue of the requirement of celibacy, sexual activity with anyone is proscribed for priests. These factors have been constant and well-known by all Church authorities” (Sipe 227−228). "
― , In the Shadow of the Cross
76 " So... Dell had been a good boy with bad friends. I knew this – I used to be one of them. I’d always known Dell would disappear one day; he was too decent, too golden. This place never tainted that, and I don’t know why. He made me feel dirty. Dark and corrupt. It hadn’t always that way, and I don’t know when it changed... but I felt it now. I only knew I couldn’t hold onto him tight enough to stop those long legs carrying him away somewhere better. A day’ll come when everybody’s had you and nobody wants you anymore... As Dell drove Erin away in their rent-a-car from the Holiday Inn into the early evening traffic, I felt the walls closing in, the world swelling around me, and I knew that day had finally come. Tomorrow, I leave Paradise. It’s true. Shanise was right.I turned away as the car disappeared up the slushy street. That was the last time I saw them alive. "
― , City of Paradise
77 " When I am passing through hell, I have to remind myself of the last time I happened to be on that road. How quickly it was over, without any ingenuity on my part. After all, hell is a one-way street. The only direction forward is the way out. "
78 " The most ironic thing in the world is having no say when your name is determined for the first time (which is also for the last time for most), because newborns are not necessarily known for speaking their minds. "
― Pawan Mishra , Coinman: An Untold Conspiracy
79 " When is the last time you got angry at someone treating you with respect? "
80 " When was the last time someone read aloud to you? Probably when you were a child, and if you think back, you'll remember how safe you felt, tucked under the covers, or curled in someone's arms, as a story was spun around you like a web. "
― Jodi Picoult , The Storyteller
