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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
Notice
Accidents
Forearms
Lines
Symmetrical
Wrists
Scars
Faint
Scar
Thin

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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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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 happened to the world was gradual. I've forgotten what it actually was, but I have faint, fetal memories of what it was like. A smoldering dread that never really caught fire till there wasn't much left to burn. Each sequential step surprised us. Then one day we woke up, and everything was gone.
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The kind of stuff I usually read is a bit more on the literary side, like books that I think are influential in the sense that they're doing pulpy subject matter in a refined way. Like 'The Road' by Cormac McCarthy, I loved that book.
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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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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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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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Once you've arrived at the end of the world, it hardly matters which route you took.
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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 sad to see them staring wistfully through the window when the door isn’t locked.
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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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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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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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My favorite songs change every year.
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What I'm saying is, when you have weight like that in your life, you have to start looking for the bigger picture or you are gonna sink.
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...wanting change is step one, but step two is taking it.
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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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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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Warm Bodies ended up becoming one of the most personal relatable things I've written.
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I want life and in all its stupid sticky rawness.
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