We eat and sleep and shuffle through the fog, walking a marathon with no finish line, no medals, no cheering.
Isaac MarionI notice faint scars on her wrists and forearms, thin lines too symmetrical to be accidents.
Isaac MarionTags: warm bodies isaac r marion
I can’t seem to make myself care about anything to the right or left of the present.
Isaac MarionTags: warm bodies isaac r marion
Are my words ever actually audible, or do they just echo in my head while people stare at me, waiting?
Isaac MarionTags: warm bodies isaac r marion
I like how you remember things,’ I say.
She looks at me. ‘Well, we have to. We have to remember everything. If we don’t, by the time we grow up it’ll be gone for ever.
Tags: warm bodies isaac r marion
But we don’t remember those lives. We can’t read our diaries.’
‘It doesn’t matter. We are where we are, however we got here. What matters is where we go next.’
‘But can we choose that?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘We’re Dead. Can we really choose anything?’
‘Maybe. If we want to bad enough.
Tags: warm bodies isaac marion
We must see people not as object but as beings, with souls and with bodies through which they express their souls.
Kate Wicker[Olive’s] left foot was bleeding through a wide swath of bandages onto the tarp it was resting on. The bowl next to her was full of blood.
Olive looked a little pale. “I don’t think I should move,” she said.
“What are you doing?” Roger shut the door behind him and stood with his back to it.
“I decided I might try to eat my toes,” Olive said, closing her eyes. “But now that I’ve started, I don’t think I should move.”
Roger pushed himself off the wall and knelt down next to her. He unbuckled her silver belt and reached with it under her dress. He looped the belt around the top of her leg and tightened it. His hands were not shaking.
“Sit on the loose end,” he said, pushing it under her. “I hope that works.”
“You brought flowers,” she said, blinking.
“Olive,” he said. “You cut off your toes.”
She looked down at the bowl. “Are they still toes?” she asked.
Souls live on without their bodies. But bodies without souls are nothing but compost.
Gina DamicoTags: spiritual death souls bodies croak
They are such thin things, these lives of ours; cheap got, cheap lost, mere flickers against the ever dark, brief shadows on a wall. This life no more substantial than breath, a light which fills the chambers of our bodies, and is gone.
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