ISAAC MARION

I adapt to things quickly, including good things, which I wish I could shut off sometimes.

The kind of stuff I usually read is a bit more on the literary side, like books that I think are influential in the sense that they're doing pulpy subject matter in a refined way. Like 'The Road' by Cormac McCarthy; I loved that book.

Regret is pointless. I never do anything without first deciding to do it based on facts and feelings, and if it doesn't work out how I hoped, oh well - there's another notch on my experience belt.

I used to split my time between writing, music and painting. I would work on a book and then abandon it, start a band, do an album, quit music, then do a gallery show. Eventually I decided to give writing a serious shot.

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

Sometimes it's a struggle to live in the moment.

Every experience, good or bad, is a priceless collector's item.

It's rare that I read more than two or three books by any one author; usually only one.

My favorite songs change every year.

I've always been interested in writing from the perspective of an outsider.

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.

I adapt to things quickly, including good things, which I wish I could shut off sometimes. My friends have to keep reminding me how crazy my life has become, and then it hits me fresh and I just slap my forehead and think, "Wait, what... ?"

Can we really choose anything?' 'Maybe. If we want to bad enough.

All the shitty stuff people do to themselves... it can all be the same thing, you know? Just a way to drown out your own voice. To kill your memories without having to kill yourself.

The world that birthed that story is long gone, all its people are dead, but it continues to touch the present and future because someone cared enough about that world to keep it. To put it in words. To remember it.

Now I’m just standing here on the conveyor. Along for the ride. I reach the end, turn around, and go back the other way. The world has been distilled. Being dead is easy. After a few hours of this, I notice a female on the opposite conveyor. She doesn’t lurch or groan like most of us. Her head just lolls from side to side. I like that about her. That she doesn’t lurch or groan. I catch her eye and stare at her.

She is Living and I'm Dead, but I'd like to believe we're both human. Call me an idealist.

I feel the flatline of my existence disrupting, forming heartbeat hills and valleys

Life only makes any sense if we can see time how God does. Past, present, and future all at once.

I want to change my punctuation. I long for exclamation marks, but I'm drowning in ellipses.

The shadows of the room pool in the lines of our faces, draining our eyes of hue. "There's nothing left worth saying.

I think we crushed ourselves down over the centuries. Buried ourselves under greed and hate and whatever other sins we could find until our souls finally hit the rock bottom of the universe. And then they scraped a hole through it, into some ... darker place.

How do I appear unthreatening when her lover's blood is running down my chin?

It's not like I'm such a shiny happy person either, you know? I'm a wreck too, I'm just... still alive.

I hate that she's hurt. I hate that she's been hurt, by me and by others, throughout the entire arc of her life. I barely remember pain, but when I see it in her I feel it in myself, in disproportionate measure. it creeps into my eyes, stinging, burning.