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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: 43
Born: 1981
Born: December 30
Music Journalist
Novelist
Writer
Seattle
Washington
Living
Use
Wince
Human
Differentiation
Humans
Idealist
Never
Liked
Dead
Call
Word
More quotes by Isaac Marion
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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Why is it beautiful that humanity keeps coming back? So does herpes.
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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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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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I notice faint scars on her wrists and forearms, thin lines too symmetrical to be accidents.
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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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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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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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I feel an unfamiliar but pleasant sensation in my lips, tugging them upward. This is... new.
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...thinking all this maximalism would somehow generate happiness?
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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 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 it's a struggle to live in the moment.
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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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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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We are where we are, however we got here. What matters is where we go next.
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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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Warm Bodies ended up becoming one of the most personal relatable things I've written.
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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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It was fun, but it's over now. This is how things go.
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