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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
Standing
Feel
Palm
Feels
Echo
Palms
Pulse
Echoes
Mines
Mine

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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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I sigh inside, so exhausted by these ugly questions, but when did a monster ever deserve its privacy?
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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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Sometimes I wonder if he has a philosophy. Maybe even a worldview. I'd like to sit down with him and pick his brain, just a tiny bit somewhere in the frontal lobe to get a taste of his thoughts. But he's too much of a toughguy to ever be that vulnerable. - R on M
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Can we really choose anything?' 'Maybe. If we want to bad enough.
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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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It's more eerie to be alone in a city that's lit up and functioning than one that's a tomb. If everything were silent, one could almost pretend to be in nature. A forest. A meadow. Crickets and birdsong. But the corpse of civilization is as restless as the creatures that now roam the graveyards.
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I would like my life to be a movie so I could cut to a montage.
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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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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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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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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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I'm watching her talk. Watching her jaw move and collecting her words one by one as they spill from her lips. I don't deserve them. Her warm memories. I'd like to paint them over the bare plaster walls of my soul, but everything I paint seems to peel.
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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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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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A month ago there was nothing on Earth I missed, enjoyed, or longed for. I knew I could lose everything and not feel anything, and I rested easy in that knowledge. But I'm growing tired of easy things.
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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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I notice faint scars on her wrists and forearms, thin lines too symmetrical to be accidents.
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My favorite songs change every year.
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