It radiates out from him like a cloud of ghosts, countless hands clutching at the air, reaching out for…something.
Isaac MarionStichwörter: poetic-fiction
He is spent. His mind is mercury again, its brief surge of humanity melting into an oily residue on its surface, and he no longer understands the feelings he felt in that strange moment on the overpass.
But he did feel them. They did happen. They rest on the murky seabed of his mind, buried under sand and silt and miles of grey waves. Patient seeds waiting for light.
Stichwörter: poetic-fiction
There’s not really such thing as ‘good’ or ‘bad’ people, there’s just like…humanity. And it gets broken sometimes.
Isaac MarionStichwörter: humanity morals tragic
I mean obviously, staying alive is pretty fucking important . . . but there’s got to be something beyond that, right?
Isaac MarionStichwörter: living
Believe that God discarded you if you want to, fate or destiny or whatever, but at least know they loved you...
Isaac MarionSo when? You know things are moving. You’re changing, your fellow Dead are changing, the world is ready for something miraculous. What are we waiting for?
Isaac MarionStichwörter: world change solution
I try to think of things to say but nothing comes, and if something did come I probably couldn’t say it. This is my great obstacle, the biggest of all the boulders littering my path. 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.
Isaac MarionCame 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—
After finishing my drink I feel a pressure in my lower regions, and I realize I have to piss. Since the Dead don't drink, urination is a rare event. I hope I can remember how to do it.
Isaac MarionAs she dampens my shirt with sadness and snot, I realize I'm about to do another thing I've never done before. I suck in air and attempt to sing. “You're . . . sensational . . . ,” I croak, struggling for a trace of Frank's melody. “Sensational . . . that's all.”
There's a pause, and then something shifts in Julie's demeanor. I realize she's laughing.
“Oh wow,” she giggles, and looks up at me, her eyes still glistening above a grin. “That was beautiful, R, really. You and Zombie Sinatra should record Duets III.”
I cough. “Didn't get . . . warm-up.
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