Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
I feel an unfamiliar but pleasant sensation in my lips, tugging them upward. This is... new.
I'm not a general or a colonel or a builder of cities. I'm just a corpse who wants not to be.
I'm alone, stumbling through the city in the dark, trying not to let the night freeze my blood.
Life only makes any sense if we can see time how God does. Past, present, and future all at once.
I sigh inside, so exhausted by these ugly questions, but when did a monster ever deserve its privacy?
Are my words ever actually audible, or do they just echo in my head while people stare at me, waiting?
It's not like I'm such a shiny happy person either, you know? I'm a wreck too, I'm just... still alive.
We will cry and bleed and lust and love, and we will cure death. We will be the cure. Because we want it.
I want a new past,new memories, a new first handshake with love. I want to start over in every possible way.
We eat and sleep and shuffle through the fog, walking a marathon with no finish line, no medals, no cheering.
Deep under our feet the Earth holds its molten breath, while the bones of countless generations watch us and wait.
There’s not really such thing as ‘good’ or ‘bad’ people, there’s just like…humanity. And it gets broken sometimes.
Are we all just Dark Age doctors, swearing by our leeches? We crave a greater science. We want to be proven wrong.
The shadows of the room pool in the lines of our faces, draining our eyes of hue. "There's nothing left worth saying.
Is this muteness a real physical handicap? One of the many symptoms of being Dead?Or do we just have nothing left to say?
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.
Peel off these dusty wool blankets of apathy and antipathy and cynical desiccation. I want life in all its stupid sticky rawness.
I wish people were willing to dig a little deeper than the surface elements of a premise before tossing one story in with another.
My friend "M" says the irony of being a zombie is that everything is funny, but you can't smile, because your lips have rotted off.
There is no ideal world for you to wait around for. The world is always just what it is now, and it's up to you how you respond to it.
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 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.
Just... ate," M says, frowning at me a little. "Two days...ago." I grab my stomach again. "Feel empty. Feel... dead." He nods. "Marr...iage.
It’s not about keeping up the population, it’s about passing on who we are and what we've learned, so things keep going. So we don’t just end.
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?
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.
What's wrong with people?" she says, almost too quiet for me to hear. "Were they born with parts missing or did it fall out somewhere along the way?
That's why we have memory. And the opposite of memory— hope. So things that are gone can still matter. So we can built off our pasts and make future.
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.
One mistake, one brief lapse of my new found judgement-that's all it took to unravel everything. What a massive responsibility, being a moral creature.
I don't want to hear music, I don't want the sunrise to be pink. The world is a liar. Its ugliness is overwhelming; the scraps of beauty make it worse.
Once again the absurdity of my inner thoughts overwhelms me, and I want to crawl out of my skin, escape my ugly, awkward flesh and be a skeleton, naked and anonymous.
You should always be taking pictures, if not with a camera then with your mind. Memories you capture on purpose are always more vivid than the ones you pick up by accident.
But I'm not afraid of the skeletons in Julie's closet. I look forward to meeting the rest of them, looking them hard in the eye, giving them firm, bone-crunching handshakes.
All my life I have battled the alarm clock, pummeling the snooze button over and over with mounting self-loathing until the shame is finally strong enough to lever me upright.
There is a chasm between me and the world outside of me. A gap so wide my feelings can't cross it. By the time my screams reach the other side, they have dwindled into groans.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
The sports arena Julie calls home is unaccountably large, perhaps one of those dual-event 'super venues' built for an era when the greatest quandary facing the world was where to put all the parties.
I don't know... there's something kind of beautiful about it, don't you think? That we keep living and growing even though our world is a corpse? That we keep coming back no matter how many of us die?
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.
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.
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.
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.
Stop. Breathe those useless breaths. Drop this piece of life you’re holding to your lips. Where are you? How long have you been here? Stop now. You have to stop. Squeeze shut your stinging eyes, and take another bite.
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.