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Are we all just Dark Age doctors, swearing by our leeches? We crave a greater science. We want to be proven wrong.

Isaac Marion

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Isaac Marion
Age: 42
Born: 1981
Born: December 30
Music Journalist
Novelist
Writer
Seattle
Washington
Proven
Doctors
Greater
Dark
Age
Wrong
Leeches
Science
Swearing
Crave

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Just... ate, M says, frowning at me a little. Two days...ago. I grab my stomach again. Feel empty. Feel... dead. He nods. Marr...iage.
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Life only makes any sense if we can see time how God does. Past, present, and future all at once.
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My favorite songs change every year.
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Everything you see, you might be seeing for the last time.
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It’s sad to see them staring wistfully through the window when the door isn’t locked.
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In my mind I am eloquent I can climb intricate scaffolds of words to reach the highest cathedral ceilings and paint my thoughts. But when I open my mouth, everything collapses.
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Can we really choose anything?' 'Maybe. If we want to bad enough.
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You can order yourself to treasure a moment, to cling tight to a feeling and never let it fade, but it's your brain, that three-pound lump of hamburger, that makes the final call.
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You know things are moving. You're changing, you fellow Dead are changing, the world is ready for something miraculous. What are we waiting for?
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I notice faint scars on her wrists and forearms, thin lines too symmetrical to be accidents.
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I want life and in all its stupid sticky rawness.
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I want to change my punctuation. I long for exclamation marks, but I'm drowning in ellipses.
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It's a strange feeling, being so utterly surrounded by her. Her life scent is on everything. She's on me and under me and next to me. It's as if the entire room is made out of her.
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I would like my life to be a movie so I could cut to a montage.
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I feel an unfamiliar but pleasant sensation in my lips, tugging them upward. This is... new.
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No praise, no blame. Just so.
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I crush her against me. I want to be part of her. Not just inside her but all around her. I want our rib cages to crack open and our hearts to migrate and merge. I want our cells to braid together like living thread.
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What's wrong with people? she says, almost too quiet for me to hear. Were they born with parts missing or did it fall out somewhere along the way?
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I don't want to hear music, I don't want the sunrise to be pink. The world is a liar. Its ugliness is overwhelming the scraps of beauty make it worse.
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I can’t seem to make myself care about anything to the right or left of the present.
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