If you Fear, your Heart will decay — L V HALL
If you Fear, your Heart will decay — L V HALL
If you Fear, your Heart will decay — L V HALL
If you Fear, your Heart will decay — L V HALL
If you Fear, your Heart will decay — L V HALL
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If you Fear, your Heart will decay

— L V HALL
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More “Decay” Quotes

Material wealth do not last forever, but that which probably lasts forever is the wealth of intelligence and creativity. — Michael Bassey Johnson
As far as he could discover, there were no signs of spring. The decay that covered the surface of the mottled ground was — Nathanael West, Miss Lonelyhearts
Nothing stays forever, nobody does rather. All the things, people will leave you one fine day and you’ll be a wanderer i — Nupur Walia
Enough rationalization. They simply had what you wanted, so you took it.[My chair-- I shit on my good chair!]You shit mo — Rick Remender, Tokyo Ghost, Vol. 2: Come Join Us
We are born into a realm of constant change. Everything is decaying. We are continually losing all that we come in conta — Noah Levine, Against the Stream: A Buddhist Manual for Spiritual Revolutionaries
Life is Not a perpetual climb towards Greatness.For our family, ourselves, and friends,It is but sad Decay, so,Let every — Roman Payne
Change your environment and if the need be, change your company because it goes a long way to create another version for — Israelmore Ayivor, The Great Hand Book of Quotes
As a people we practiced excess. Excess in everything - pleasure, gaud display, endless toil, and death. Vagrant childre — E.L. Doctrow
When what one does, reps, or 'spits', repetitively, is foul or beastly - one summons spiritual undertakers to dine on fl — T.F. Hodge, From Within I Rise: Spiritual Triumph Over Death and Conscious Encounters with "The Divine Presence"
Rust may never sleep, but then, neither does moss. — Brian Awehali
Movement turns dead dogs into maggots and daisies, and flour butter sugar an egg and a tablespoon of milk into Abernethy — Alasdair Gray, Poor Things
for meobedience to another is the decayof self — Charles Bukowski, Play the Piano Drunk Like a Percussion Instrument Until the Fingers Begin to Bleed a Bit