Are my words ever actually audible, or do they just echo in my head while people stare at me, waiting?

I can feel it... the chance to start over, to live right, to love right, to burn up in a fiery cloud and never again be buried in the mud.

Why is it beautiful that humanity keeps coming back? So does herpes.

I want life and in all its stupid sticky rawness.

If there are rules, we're the ones making them. We can change them whenever we want to.

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.

Writing isn't letters on paper. It's communication. It's memory.