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I notice faint scars on her wrists and forearms, thin lines too symmetrical to be accidents.

Isaac Marion

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Isaac Marion
Age: 42
Born: 1981
Born: December 30
Music Journalist
Novelist
Writer
Seattle
Washington
Wrists
Scars
Faint
Scar
Thin
Notice
Accidents
Forearms
Lines
Symmetrical

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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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Writing isn't letters on paper. It's communication. It's memory.
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We have to remember everything. If we don't, by the time we grow up it'll be gone forever.
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You know things are moving. You're changing, you fellow Dead are changing, the world is ready for something miraculous. What are we waiting for?
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My favorite songs change every year.
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It's hard to take your life so seriously when you can see it all at once.
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It frustrates and fascinates me that we'll never know for sure, that despite the best efforts of historians and scientists and poets, there are some things we'll just never know. What the first song sounded like. How it felt to see the first photograph. Who kissed the first kiss, and if it was any good.
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If there are rules, we're the ones making them. We can change them whenever we want to.
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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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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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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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When the entire world is built on death and horror, when existence is a constant state of panic, it's hard to get worked up about any one thing. Specific fears have become irrelevant. We've replace them with a smothering blanket far worse.
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It was fun, but it's over now. This is how things go.
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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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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 want life and in all its stupid sticky rawness.
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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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In my palm I can feel the echo of her pulse, standing in for the absense of mine.
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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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