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It’s sad to see them staring wistfully through the window when the door isn’t locked.

Isaac Marion

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Isaac Marion
Age: 42
Born: 1981
Born: December 30
Music Journalist
Novelist
Writer
Seattle
Washington
Window
Doors
Wistfully
Locked
Staring
Door

More quotes by Isaac Marion

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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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Writing isn't letters on paper. It's communication. It's memory.
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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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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 was fun, but it's over now. This is how things go.
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Can we really choose anything?' 'Maybe. If we want to bad enough.
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I want to change my punctuation. I long for exclamation marks, but I'm drowning in ellipses.
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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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Why is it beautiful that humanity keeps coming back? So does herpes.
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I want life and in all its stupid sticky rawness.
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You might say that death has relaxed me.
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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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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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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 feel an unfamiliar but pleasant sensation in my lips, tugging them upward. This is... new.
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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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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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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 notice faint scars on her wrists and forearms, thin lines too symmetrical to be accidents.
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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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