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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
Palms
Pulse
Echoes
Mines
Mine
Standing
Feel
Palm
Feels
Echo

More quotes by Isaac Marion

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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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...wanting change is step one, but step two is taking it.
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Maybe this is why I sleep only a few hours a month. I don't want to die again. This has become clearer and clearer to me recently, a desire so sharp and focused I can hardly believe it's mine: I don't want to die. I don't want to disappear. I want to stay.
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Sometimes it's a struggle to live in the moment.
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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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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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We have to remember everything. If we don't, by the time we grow up it'll be gone forever.
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When the entire world is built on death and horror, when existence is a constant state of panic, it's hard to get worked up about any one thing. Specific fears have become irrelevant. We've replace them with a smothering blanket far worse.
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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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What happened? How did I get here? How could I have known that my choices mattered?
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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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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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Writing isn't letters on paper. It's communication. It's memory.
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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 feel an unfamiliar but pleasant sensation in my lips, tugging them upward. This is... new.
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It was fun, but it's over now. This is how things go.
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What happened to the world was gradual. I've forgotten what it actually was, but I have faint, fetal memories of what it was like. A smoldering dread that never really caught fire till there wasn't much left to burn. Each sequential step surprised us. Then one day we woke up, and everything was gone.
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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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I can feel it... the chance to start over, to live right, to love right, to burn up in a fiery cloud and never again be buried in the mud.
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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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