Isaac Marion is an American writer. He is best known as the best-selling author of the "zombie romance" novel Warm Bodies.
She hugs me. It's tentative at first, a little scared, and yes, a little repulsed, but then she melts into it. She rests her head against my cold neck and embraces me. Unable to believer what's happening, I put my arm around her and just hold her. I almost swear I can feel my heart thumping. But it must just be hers, pressed tightly against my chest.
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.
Peel off these dusty wool blankets of apathy and antipathy and cynical desiccation. I want life in all its stupid sticky rawness.
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.
What I'm saying is, when you have weight like that in your life, you have to start looking for the bigger picture or you are gonna sink.
I want to change my punctuation. I long for exclamation marks, but I'm drowning in ellipses.
She is everything. And if she is everything, maybe that's answer enough.
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—
What's the point of trying to fix a world we're so briefly in?
I can no longer believe in any voodoo spell or laboratory virus. This is something deeper, darker. This comes from the cosmos, from the stars, or the unknown blackness behind them. The shadows in God's boarded-up basement.
. . . wanting change is step one, but step two is taking it.
I'm not a general or a colonel or a builder of cities. I'm just a corpse who wants not to be.
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.
I think the world has mostly ended because the cities we wander through are as rotten as we are. Buildings have collapsed. Rusted cars clog the streets. Most glass is shattered and the wind drifting through the hollow high-rises moans like an animal left to die. I don't know what happened. Disease? War? Social collapse? Or was it just us? The Dead replacing the Living? I guess it's not so important. Once you're arrived at the end of the world, it hardly matters which road you took.
I wonder how well she sleeps at night, and what kind of dreams she has. I wish I could step into them like she steps into mine.
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.
What a massive responsibility, being a moral creature
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.
Every experience, good or bad, is a priceless collector's item.
I'm alone, stumbling through the city in the dark, trying not to let the night freeze my blood.