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Warm Bodies ended up becoming one of the most personal relatable things I've written.

Isaac Marion

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Isaac Marion
Age: 42
Born: 1981
Born: December 30
Music Journalist
Novelist
Writer
Seattle
Washington
Things
Relatable
Ended
Bodies
Warm
Becoming
Personal
Written
Body

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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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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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Can we really choose anything?' 'Maybe. If we want to bad enough.
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It was fun, but it's over now. This is how things go.
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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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Writing isn't letters on paper. It's communication. It's memory.
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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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Sometimes it's a struggle to live in the moment.
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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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Every time I go to sleep, I know I may never wake up. How could anyone expect to? You drop your tiny, helpless mind into a bottomless well, crossing your fingers and hoping when you pull it out on its flimsy fishing wire it hasn't been gnawed to bones by nameless beasts below.
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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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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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Everything you see, you might be seeing for the last time.
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We eat and sleep and shuffle through the fog, walking a marathon with no finish line, no medals, no cheering.
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She is Living and I'm Dead, but I'd like to believe we're both human. Call me an idealist.
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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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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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...wanting change is step one, but step two is taking it.
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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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I sigh inside, so exhausted by these ugly questions, but when did a monster ever deserve its privacy?
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