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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
Doors
Wistfully
Locked
Staring
Door
Window

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Are we all just Dark Age doctors, swearing by our leeches? We crave a greater science. We want to be proven wrong.
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What's the point of trying to fix a world we're so briefly in?
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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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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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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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I want to change my punctuation. I long for exclamation marks, but I'm drowning in ellipses.
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I want a new past,new memories, a new first handshake with love. I want to start over in every possible way.
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In my palm I can feel the echo of her pulse, standing in for the absense of mine.
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I'm not a general or a colonel or a builder of cities. I'm just a corpse who wants not to be.
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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 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.
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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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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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I don't want to hear music, I don't want the sunrise to be pink. The world is a liar. Its ugliness is overwhelming the scraps of beauty make it worse.
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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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Why is it beautiful that humanity keeps coming back? So does herpes.
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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'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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