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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.

Isaac Marion

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Isaac Marion
Age: 42
Born: 1981
Born: December 30
Music Journalist
Novelist
Writer
Seattle
Washington
Call
Word
Living
Use
Wince
Human
Differentiation
Humans
Idealist
Never
Liked
Dead

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My favorite songs change every year.
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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 notice faint scars on her wrists and forearms, thin lines too symmetrical to be accidents.
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Music? Music is life! It’s physical emotion - you can touch it! It’s neon ecto-energy sucked out of spirits and switched into sound waves for your ears to swallow. Are you telling me, what, that it’s boring? You don’t have time for it?
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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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It's rare that I read more than two or three books by any one author, usually only one.
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No praise, no blame. Just so.
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What happened? How did I get here? How could I have known that my choices mattered?
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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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What's the point of trying to fix a world we're so briefly in?
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She is Living and I'm Dead, but I'd like to believe we're both human. Call me an idealist.
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One mistake, one brief lapse of my new found judgement-that's all it took to unravel everything. What a massive responsibility, being a moral creature.
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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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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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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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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 eat and sleep and shuffle through the fog, walking a marathon with no finish line, no medals, no cheering.
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Warm Bodies ended up becoming one of the most personal relatable things I've written.
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I want life and in all its stupid sticky rawness.
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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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