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I feel an unfamiliar but pleasant sensation in my lips, tugging them upward. This is... new.

Isaac Marion

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Isaac Marion
Age: 42
Born: 1981
Born: December 30
Music Journalist
Novelist
Writer
Seattle
Washington
Lips
Feel
Feels
Tugging
Upward
Unfamiliar
Sensation
Sensations
Pleasant

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...wanting change is step one, but step two is taking it.
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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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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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Here it comes. My inevitable death, ignoring me all those years when I wished for it daily, arriving only after I've decided I want to live forever.
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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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Deep under our feet the Earth holds its molten breath, while the bones of countless generations watch us and wait.
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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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I can feel it... the chance to start over, to live right, to love right, to burn up in a fiery cloud and never again be buried in the mud.
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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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How do I appear unthreatening when her lover's blood is running down my chin?
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Can we really choose anything?' 'Maybe. If we want to bad enough.
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It's a strange feeling, being so utterly surrounded by her. Her life scent is on everything. She's on me and under me and next to me. It's as if the entire room is made out of her.
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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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My favorite songs change every year.
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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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Writing isn't letters on paper. It's communication. It's memory.
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We are where we are, however we got here. What matters is where we go next.
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Everything you see, you might be seeing for the last time.
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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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...thinking all this maximalism would somehow generate happiness?
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