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

Él asiente. —Matri...monio.

Mi amigo M dice que lo irónico de ser un zombie es que todo tiene gracia, pero no puedes sonreír porque se te han podrido los labios.

Stop shrugging, shrugger.

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.