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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
Humans
Idealist
Never
Liked
Dead
Call
Word
Living
Use
Wince
Human
Differentiation

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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 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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We eat and sleep and shuffle through the fog, walking a marathon with no finish line, no medals, no cheering.
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I feel an unfamiliar but pleasant sensation in my lips, tugging them upward. This is... new.
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What happened? How did I get here? How could I have known that my choices mattered?
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...thinking all this maximalism would somehow generate happiness?
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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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No praise, no blame. Just so.
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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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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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I crush her against me. I want to be part of her. Not just inside her but all around her. I want our rib cages to crack open and our hearts to migrate and merge. I want our cells to braid together like living thread.
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Writing isn't letters on paper. It's communication. It's memory.
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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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Deep under our feet the Earth holds its molten breath, while the bones of countless generations watch us and wait.
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Once you've arrived at the end of the world, it hardly matters which route you took.
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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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I would like my life to be a movie so I could cut to a montage.
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There’s not really such thing as ‘good’ or ‘bad’ people, there’s just like…humanity. And it gets broken sometimes.
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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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