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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
Scar
Thin
Notice
Accidents
Forearms
Lines
Symmetrical
Wrists
Scars
Faint

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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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...thinking all this maximalism would somehow generate happiness?
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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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We are where we are, however we got here. What matters is where we go next.
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Deep under our feet the Earth holds its molten breath, while the bones of countless generations watch us and wait.
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It's rare that I read more than two or three books by any one author, usually only one.
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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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I wish people were willing to dig a little deeper than the surface elements of a premise before tossing one story in with another.
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Writing isn't letters on paper. It's communication. It's memory.
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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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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'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 hard to take your life so seriously when you can see it all at once.
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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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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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Came to . . . see you.” “But I had to go home, remember? You were supposed to say good-bye.” “Don't know why you . . . say good-bye. I say . . . hello.” Her lip quivers between reactions, but she ends up with a reluctant smile. “God you're a cheeseball. But seriously, R—
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No praise, no blame. Just so.
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What's the point of trying to fix a world we're so briefly in?
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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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Everything you see, you might be seeing for the last time.
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