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How do I appear unthreatening when her lover's blood is running down my chin?

Isaac Marion

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Isaac Marion
Age: 42
Born: 1981
Born: December 30
Music Journalist
Novelist
Writer
Seattle
Washington
Running
Chin
Chins
Lover
Appear
Lovers
Blood

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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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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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We have to remember everything. If we don't, by the time we grow up it'll be gone forever.
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I'm not a general or a colonel or a builder of cities. I'm just a corpse who wants not to be.
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I sigh inside, so exhausted by these ugly questions, but when did a monster ever deserve its privacy?
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It's not like I'm such a shiny happy person either, you know? I'm a wreck too, I'm just... still alive.
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I want life and in all its stupid sticky rawness.
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You should always be taking pictures, if not with a camera then with your mind. Memories you capture on purpose are always more vivid than the ones you pick up by accident.
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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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It’s sad to see them staring wistfully through the window when the door isn’t locked.
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...thinking all this maximalism would somehow generate happiness?
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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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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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We are where we are, however we got here. What matters is where we go next.
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In my palm I can feel the echo of her pulse, standing in for the absense of mine.
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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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That's why we have memory. And the opposite of memory— hope. So things that are gone can still matter. So we can built off our pasts and make future.
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Sometimes it's a struggle to live in the moment.
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What's the point of trying to fix a world we're so briefly in?
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I can no longer believe in any voodoo spell or laboratory virus. This is something deeper, darker. This comes from the cosmos, from the stars, or the unknown blackness behind them. The shadows in God's boarded-up basement.
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