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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
Becoming
Personal
Written
Body
Things
Relatable
Ended
Bodies
Warm

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How do I appear unthreatening when her lover's blood is running down my chin?
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I want to change my punctuation. I long for exclamation marks, but I'm drowning in ellipses.
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My favorite songs change every year.
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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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In my palm I can feel the echo of her pulse, standing in for the absense of mine.
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I can’t seem to make myself care about anything to the right or left of the present.
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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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I would like my life to be a movie so I could cut to a montage.
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Soft flesh is eaten by hard teeth.
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I crush her against me. I want to be part of her. Not just inside her but all around her. I want our rib cages to crack open and our hearts to migrate and merge. I want our cells to braid together like living thread.
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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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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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Once you've arrived at the end of the world, it hardly matters which route you took.
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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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We have to remember everything. If we don't, by the time we grow up it'll be gone forever.
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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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A month ago there was nothing on Earth I missed, enjoyed, or longed for. I knew I could lose everything and not feel anything, and I rested easy in that knowledge. But I'm growing tired of easy things.
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I feel an unfamiliar but pleasant sensation in my lips, tugging them upward. This is... new.
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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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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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