Avarice is fear sheathed in gold.
Praises for our past triumphs are as feathers to a dead bird.
Reading the epitaphs, our only salvation lies in resurrecting the dead and burying the living.
To have lived long does not necessarily imply the gathering of much wisdom and experience. One who has pedaled twenty-five thousand miles on a stationary bicycle has not circled the globe. He or she has only garnered weariness.
We mourn the transitory things and fret under the yoke of the immutable ones.
Many a necklace becomes a noose.