...and we'll see what happens when we say Yes while this rigor mortis world screams No.

I'm watching her talk. Watching her jaw move and collecting her words one by one as they spill from her lips. I don't deserve them. Her warm memories. I'd like to paint them over the bare plaster walls of my soul, but everything I paint seems to peel.

Are we all just Dark Age doctors, swearing by our leeches? We crave a greater science. We want to be proven wrong.

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.

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

Me agarro el estómago de nuevo. —Me siento vacío... Me siento...muerto.

Él asiente. —Matri...monio.