It Was Fun, But It's Over Now.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Kind Of Stuff I Usually Read Is A Bit More On The Literary Side, Like Books That I Think Are Influential In The Sense That They're Doing Pulpy Subject Matter In A Refined Way. Like 'the Road' By Cormac Mccarthy, I Loved That Book.