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In my palm I can feel the echo of her pulse, standing in for the absense of mine.

Isaac Marion

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Isaac Marion
Age: 42
Born: 1981
Born: December 30
Music Journalist
Novelist
Writer
Seattle
Washington
Feel
Palm
Feels
Echo
Palms
Pulse
Echoes
Mines
Mine
Standing

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Every time I go to sleep, I know I may never wake up. How could anyone expect to? You drop your tiny, helpless mind into a bottomless well, crossing your fingers and hoping when you pull it out on its flimsy fishing wire it hasn't been gnawed to bones by nameless beasts below.
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Stop. Breathe those useless breaths. Drop this piece of life you’re holding to your lips. Where are you? How long have you been here? Stop now. You have to stop. Squeeze shut your stinging eyes, and take another bite.
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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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I used to split my time between writing, music and painting. I would work on a book and then abandon it, start a band, do an album, quit music, then do a gallery show. Eventually I decided to give writing a serious shot.
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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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Can we really choose anything?' 'Maybe. If we want to bad enough.
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You might say that death has relaxed me.
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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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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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What I'm saying is, when you have weight like that in your life, you have to start looking for the bigger picture or you are gonna sink.
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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.
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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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I wince at her use of the word human. I've never liked that differentiation. She is living and I'm dead, but we're both human. Call me an idealist.
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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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How do I appear unthreatening when her lover's blood is running down my chin?
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I wish people were willing to dig a little deeper than the surface elements of a premise before tossing one story in with another.
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I feel an unfamiliar but pleasant sensation in my lips, tugging them upward. This is... new.
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Soft flesh is eaten by hard teeth.
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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 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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