She gathers my half of the blankets around her and curls up against the wall. She will sleep for hours more, dreaming endless landscapes and novas of colour both gorgeous and frightening. If I stayed she would wake up and describe them to me. All the mad plot twists and surrealist imagery, so vivid to her while so meaningless to me. There was a time when I treasured listening to her, when I found the commotion in her soul bitter-sweet and lovely, but I can no longer bear it.

I want life and in all its stupid sticky rawness.

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 wish people were willing to dig a little deeper than the surface elements of a premise before tossing one story in with another.

I want to change my punctuation. I long for exclamation marks, but I'm drowning in ellipses.

I adapt to things quickly, including good things, which I wish I could shut off sometimes. My friends have to keep reminding me how crazy my life has become, and then it hits me fresh and I just slap my forehead and think, "Wait, what... ?"

It’s not about keeping up the population, it’s about passing on who we are and what we've learned, so things keep going. So we don’t just end.