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But it does make me sad that we've forgotten our names. Out of everything, this seems to me the most tragic. I miss my own and I mourn for everyone else's, because I'd like to love them, but I don't know who they are.

Isaac Marion

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Isaac Marion
Age: 42
Born: 1981
Born: December 30
Music Journalist
Novelist
Writer
Seattle
Washington
Love
Missing
Like
Names
Everyone
Else
Seems
Mourn
Doe
Tragic
Everything
Miss
Make
Forgotten

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Soft flesh is eaten by hard teeth.
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My favorite songs change every year.
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Once again the absurdity of my inner thoughts overwhelms me, and I want to crawl out of my skin, escape my ugly, awkward flesh and be a skeleton, naked and anonymous.
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Writing isn't letters on paper. It's communication. It's memory.
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Deep under our feet the Earth holds its molten breath, while the bones of countless generations watch us and wait.
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Here it comes. My inevitable death, ignoring me all those years when I wished for it daily, arriving only after I've decided I want to live forever.
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How do I appear unthreatening when her lover's blood is running down my chin?
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I think we crushed ourselves down over the centuries. Buried ourselves under greed and hate and whatever other sins we could find until our souls finally hit the rock bottom of the universe. And then they scraped a hole through it, into some ... darker place.
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It’s not about keeping up the population, it’s about passing on who we are and what we've learned, so things keep going. So we don’t just end.
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Why is it beautiful that humanity keeps coming back? So does herpes.
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Came to . . . see you.” “But I had to go home, remember? You were supposed to say good-bye.” “Don't know why you . . . say good-bye. I say . . . hello.” Her lip quivers between reactions, but she ends up with a reluctant smile. “God you're a cheeseball. But seriously, R—
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It's rare that I read more than two or three books by any one author, usually only one.
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We eat and sleep and shuffle through the fog, walking a marathon with no finish line, no medals, no cheering.
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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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I want to change my punctuation. I long for exclamation marks, but I'm drowning in ellipses.
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What happened? How did I get here? How could I have known that my choices mattered?
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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.
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Everything you see, you might be seeing for the last time.
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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.
Isaac Marion