Quote

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.

Isaac Marion

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Isaac Marion
Age: 42
Born: 1981
Born: December 30
Music Journalist
Novelist
Writer
Seattle
Washington
Call
Tight
Moment
Fades
Hamburger
Feelings
Pounds
Lump
Makes
Final
Hamburgers
Moments
Finals
Lumps
Three
Treasure
Pound
Order
Brain
Fade
Never
Feeling
Cling

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What happened? How did I get here? How could I have known that my choices mattered?
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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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I would like my life to be a movie so I could cut to a montage.
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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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It was fun, but it's over now. This is how things go.
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If there are rules, we're the ones making them. We can change them whenever we want to.
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How do I appear unthreatening when her lover's blood is running down my chin?
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My favorite songs change every year.
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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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Can we really choose anything?' 'Maybe. If we want to bad enough.
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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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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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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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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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It’s sad to see them staring wistfully through the window when the door isn’t locked.
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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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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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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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