Rust Corrosion Quotes

Rust, corrosion, wind, rain. The nibbling teeth of mice and the acrid droppings of insects and the devouring jaws of years. The was of nature upon machines, of the planet's chaotic forces upon the works of humankind. The energy that man had pulled from the earth was being inexorably pulled back into it, sucked like water down a drain. Before long, if it hadn't happened already, not a single high-tension pole would be left standing on the earth. Mankind had built a world that would take a hundred years to die. A century for the last light to go out.

Human mind and body metals appear to be lost through radio frequency exposure and I call this hypothesis: Internal Human Corrosion

Right to peace is more urgent for the countries where the pillars of democracy are rusted by corrosion and purchased by the dark powers of few corporates.

He felt water run down his back from the damp brickwork he was sitting against, and as he worried distantly about corrosion he realised you can always fall a little further. A moment ago he thought he'd bottomed out, but now he was concerned about personal rust. Mother of fuck.

Spring Lane burned with a mythology of chipped slates, pale wash-water blue and flaking at the seam. The summer yellow glow of an impending dawn diffused, diluted in the million-gallon sky above the tannery that occupied this low end of the ancient gradient, across the narrow street from where Phyllis and Michael stood outside the alley-mouth. The tannery’s high walls of browning brick with rusted wire mess over its high windows didn’t have the brutal aura that the building had down in the domain of the living. Rather it was softly iridescent with a sheen of fond remembrance – the cloisters of some mediaeval craft since disappeared – and had the homely perfume of manure and boiled sweets. Past the peeling wooden gates that lolled skew-whiff were yards where puddles stained a vivid tangerine harboured reflected chimney stacks, lamp black and wavering. Heaped leather shavings tinted with corrosive sapphire stood between the fire-opal pools, an azure down mounded into fantastic nests by thunderbirds to hatch their legendary fledglings. Rainspouts eaten through by time had diamond dribble beading on their chapped tin lips, and every splinter and subsided cobble sang with endless being. Michael Warren stood entranced and Phyllis Painter stood beside him, sharing his enchantment, looking at the heart-caressing vista through his eyes. The district’s summer sounds were, in her ears, reduced to a rich stock. The lengthy intervals between the bumbling drones of distant motorcars, the twittering filigree of birdsong strung along the guttered eaves, the silver gurgle of a buried torrent echoing deep in the night-throat of a drain, all these were boiled down to a single susurrus, the hissing tingling reverberation of a cymbal struck by a soft brush. The instant jingled in the breeze.

I don’t think it’s an accident that 7NC Luxury Cruises appeal mostly to older people. I don’t mean decrepitly old, but I mean like age-50+ people, for whom their own mortality is something more than an abstraction. Most of the exposed bodies to be seen all over the daytime Nadir were in various stages of disintegration. And the ocean itself (which I found to be salty as hell, like sore-throat-soothing-gargle-grade salty, its spray so corrosive that one temple-hinge of my glasses is probably going to have to be replaced) turns out to be basically one enormous engine of decay. Seawater corrodes vessels with amazing speed—rusts them, exfoliates paint, strips varnish, dulls shine, coats ships’ hulls with barnacles and kelp-clumps and a vague ubiquitous nautical snot that seems like death incarnate.

Bosch held the pistol down between his knees and ejected the magazine. It was double-stacked with fif teen 9-millimeter Parabellum rounds. He thumbed them out and put them into a cup holder in the arm rest. He then ejected a sixteenth round from the cham ber and put it in the cup holder with the others. Bosch looked down the sight to focus his aim. He peered into the chamber, looking for any sign of rust, and then studied the firing pin and extractor. He checked the gun's action and trigger several times. The weapon seemed to be functioning properly. He then studied each bullet as he reloaded the magazine, look ing for corrosion or any other indication that the am munition was old or suspect. He found nothing.

Our trust, like iron, can withstand enormous weight, but if constantly exposed to corrosive elements, rust can form, weakening its once-reliable strength—it becomes untrustworthy.

Everyone thinks about before. Before the plants closed, before the people left, before the university started the world’s first corrosion engineering institute. We have plenty of rust around to study.

First, galvanize means to “excite someone into action”—and that’s certainly what you and your team want to happen with all the genius ideas you’ve discovered. Galvanize has a second relevant meaning as well: it’s the process where iron or steel is treated with a protective layer of zinc in order to prevent rust and corrosion. In Courageous Cultures, corrosion looks like that slide back to old behaviors or safe silence. None of that. It’s time to Galvanize the Genius: to excite your team to action and prevent the slow decline of the culture you’ve all worked so hard to build.

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Our trust, like iron, can withstand enormous weight, but if constantly exposed to corrosive elements, rust can form, weakening its once-reliable strength—it becomes untrustworthy.

This was the far western end of the frontier, which is marked by a tall, rust-colored, iron-slatted fence—paralleling an older, lower fence—blistered with corrosion, which extends below the tidemark, its end sunk in the Pacific Ocean.

The Fringe is a massive concrete jungle; canyons of broken glass and rusting steel, skeletal giants choked by vines, rot and corrosion.